


Through the Looking Glass

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depression, Endgame Drarry, F/M, Hallucinations, Look i don’t ship dramione so this is gonna be a trainwreck for you if you do, M/M, Magical psychosis, Mean Girls References, Mentions of Suicide, Panic Attacks, alternate universe theory, because i am trash, i promise no one actually dies, i’m so sorry please tell me if I need to tag more, the dramione is barely there and it’s an alternate universe and i, this will have a happy ending, weird morbid humor, yeah if you ship dramione you probably shouldn’t read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:40:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In the middle of proposing to Harry, Draco ends up in an alternative universe where everything is the same, barring a few crucial details.For one, Draco just proposed to Hermione Granger, of all people. For another, Draco is apparently insane.The last fact severely limits all attempts to convince people to help him get back, as they just think he’s having another psychotic breakdown.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger
Comments: 56
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saltedkiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saltedkiss/gifts).



> Since I can’t give you a gift in person, this will have to do.
> 
> Check out Saltedkiss, guys!! She’s writing an awesome Merlin fanfic you just HAVE to read.

“Marry me,” Draco says breathlessly.

Harry looks at Draco, his green eyes painfully wide and shiny. Harry presses a hand to his mouth, then pulls Draco up to his feet into a hug. Harry holds Draco tightly, desperately, and begins to kiss him.

Nose, cheek, lips, face.

“So I’m guessing that’s a yes?” Draco laughs.

Harry starts to answer when an odd static rushes through Draco’s head. He stumbles a little bit, holding onto Harry for balance. Harry is mouthing something, but Draco has no idea what.

The white noise in his mind is too loud, and warmth fills his eyes.

The world twists and bends and abruptly _pops._ His vision is tinged with red before momentarily going black, and Draco falls back onto the ground.

Hands brush against his skin and draw Draco’s knees up against his head. He is dimly aware of Harry hugging him. Harry must think Draco is having a panic attack, which--

It wouldn’t be the first time, but it’s not happening right now, and Draco can barely breathe--

Maybe he _is_ having a panic attack. But why? Nothing happened to set him off.

Could Harry’s acceptance of his marriage proposal give Draco a panic attack? Pansy and Blaise would probably have a few things to say about that.

Not that Draco would listen to them. Draco prides himself on his selective hearing.

The breath returns to Draco’s lungs, but Harry still doesn’t let go.

“I’m fine,” Draco begins to say before freezing.

Harry’s hair is obnoxious and messy and so wiry that no gel could ever tame it. Harry’s hair is _not_ bushy and curly, and his hands are definitely too big to be the hands that are currently pressed against Draco’s body. With a muffled curse, Draco shoves not-Harry away from him.

It’s Granger.

Draco’s mouth opens and closes without a sound. He wonders if he has finally gone insane.

 _Ah, yes,_ Draco can imagine the Healer at Mungo’s saying to Harry, _your boyfriend--oh, fiance now? Congrats! Anyhoo, your fiance has finally succumbed to the crippling guilt of being a racist, pratty criminal. Doubt he’ll recover. Condolences!_

Granger holds her hands up placatingly.

“Draco, if you don’t want to be touched right now, that’s fine,” she says gently. “I promise you that I won’t.”

Draco. _Draco._ Since when are Draco and Granger on a first-name basis? Ever since she and Harry—

Wait. Where is Harry?

Draco spins around, his chest tight. 

He’s not in Harry’s flat anymore. Harry’s place is messy and crumbling and completely unorganized, despite Draco’s repeated attempts at fixing it.

Here, sunlight streams through windows so clean they might as well be solid air. The floors look as clean as the countertops, and everything sparkles. Even the bookshelves are spotless, although the spines were well-loved. 

A small velvet box lies on the ground next to Granger’s feet.

“Oh,” Draco says. “I get it now. I’m in hell.”

Granger’s eyebrows furrow.

“Right then. Should I take that personally?” she asks.

“Where am I?” Draco asks numbly.

“My flat. Draco, are you okay?”

Granger reaches out her hand to touch his forehead but stops midway, apparently remembering her promise. 

“I’m bloody dead,” Draco sneers. “How _could_ I be okay?”

Granger’s mouth opens and closes.

“Okay, I’m taking you to the Healers,” she says firmly, taking hold of Draco’s arm.

Draco holds back a flinch, and Granger quickly lets go.

“This isn’t funny anymore,” Draco says, his voice far higher than he would like to admit.

“Draco, you’re worrying me . . .”

Granger looks at Draco like he’s some pathetic little animal stuck in a trap. It makes Draco want to hit someone.

He cannot hit Granger, though, because every time Draco so much as mentions hating one of Harry’s golden Gryffindors, people automatically assume that Draco’s going to revert to his Death Eater ways.

This . . . This is just some kind of sick joke. 

Draco yanks out his wand and shouts, _“Finite Incantatem!”_

Nothing.

“Oh, sweet Merlin on a rotting toad’s webpad,” Draco moans. “Please, please, _please_ tell me that I’m stuck in a rubber cell with a straitjacket on.”

He’s not hysterical. He _is not hysterical._ Also, he is totally breathing because oxygen is important and “breathe breathe breathe--”

Granger’s hands in his hair. Granger’s lips against his forehead and her voice in his ears.

What in the name of Salazar is happening?

.

Once Draco’s momentary temper tantrum passes, Granger sits him down in the living room.

“You’re fine, Draco,” she says. “I need you to take some deep breaths—“

“I’m not crazy,” Draco snaps.

“I wasn’t saying--”

“Well, the joke’s on you,” Draco sneers, “cos I’m just in denial. Right now, I am off my rockers. I would _never_ propose to you, and you would _never_ call me Draco, and you would _never_ forgive me for joining a racist murder cult, and _would you stop looking at me like that?”_

“You need to take your medication,” Granger says, slowly, calmly, enunciating each word like Draco is a three-year-old with the sniffles.

“I don’t take medication,” Draco says, a little too quickly.

 ** _I must not tell lies_** _gleamed up from Harry’s hand._

 _Shut up, Mental Harry,_ Draco thinks.

Granger pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Draco,” she says, “what’s the last thing you can remember?”

“I don’t have amnesia!” Draco yells.

“Draco--”

“I’m not--this isn’t--we aren’t a thing! I would never, ever propose to you, and you would never say yes,” Draco continues. He’s not babbling. Okay, maybe he is, but he can’t shut himself up now that he has started. “Did I mention the Mudblood thing? I literally called you a racial slur and treated you like trash; the only reason you haven’t hexed new into oblivion is because—“

Harry’s name tangles up on Draco’s tongue.

“You’re right,” Granger says. “You don’t have amnesia. You’re having an episode.”

“What in Salazar’s name are you talking about?” 

Granger looks pained, her lips thinned into a hard line.

“You . . . dissociate sometimes,” Granger says, as casually as Pansy would say, _You’re so gay, Draco._ Like it’s an inescapable fact of nature. “Forget things. Hallucinate others. It always wears off.”

“Ah, so _that_ explains what’s happening right now,” Draco says as venomously as possible.

Granger leads him into the kitchen and begins to pull out ingredients for a light supper. Draco stares at her blankly.

“What are you doing?” Draco asks blankly.

“You’re not you when you’re hungry,” Granger says, the corners of her lips twitching.

“Why not just let the house elves do it?” he asks before his mind-to-mouth filter catches up.

Granger looks at Draco like he just murdered her favorite puppy. It takes Draco a few moments to figure out why.

Granger was in some weird club during school about elf rights. (SPIC? SPIT? SPLAT? SIPPY CUP?) Naturally, she would disapprove of any insinuations that she owns a house elf. 

Draco ignores Granger’s annoying sad face and drifts over to the coffee table. He picks up the Daily Prophet and can barely hold back a sharp gasp.

 **CHOSEN ONE AND WIFE ON THIRD CHILD** is plastered across the front page with Harry and Weasley’s little sister beaming ecstatically. Draco’s brain begins to scream _._

The noise only continues to escalate. In smaller print down in the corner, Draco spots the words **GRANGER’S DEATH EATER WHIRLWIND ROMANCE.**

There’s a picture underneath that is clearly Draco and Hermione kissing passionately.

The paper slips through Draco’s fingers and flutters onto the ground.

Would it really be too much to ask for his hallucination to be less . . . detailed?

“Oh, Draco,” Granger sighs, suddenly right behind him. “You know that paper is complete trash.”

“Then why is it in your flat?” Draco snaps, unable to keep the tension from his voice.

“It’s good to keep up on the propaganda being spread about oneself,” Granger says.

It is clearly a rehearsed argument, which only ticks Draco off more. He opens his mouth to snarl that Harry threw out the Prophet and never received them again, once he saw how much they distressed Draco.

He ends up on the floor, his fingers clenching his thin strands of hair, and the air refusing to enter his lungs.

Granger hugs him and smooths his hair, singing some odd lullaby in a language Draco cannot understand.

Routine. This is routine for her. Draco is living with her and having panic attacks around her and apparently having a bloody whirlwind romance and and and

Nothing makes sense.

.

Granger makes a stir-fry, but Draco cannot force himself to eat. Everything feels like dust upon his tongue.

“It’s never lasted this long before,” Granger remarks.

 _It_ being his so-called episodes, Draco supposes.

“I’m not taking any meds,” Draco snaps.

A slightly pained light flickers in Granger’s eyes. Draco’s fingers curl into a fist under the table. Screw Granger. Screw her and her Harry-like puppy dog eyes and her compliance with this wack hallucination.

“So,” Draco says curtly. “These episodes. What makes you think I’m having one right now?”

“You were in the middle of proposing,” Granger says. “All of a sudden, you had a panic attack and couldn’t remember where I was or how you got here.”

“Because it makes no sense!” Draco explodes. “We’re not even friends! You know how hard--” _Harry tried to get us to be friends_ “--and you can barely look at me without disgust in your eyes because of my aunt, because of _me,_ and you couldn’t even look at--” _Harry without thinking of me and you just stopped coming by because_ “--YOU HATE ME!”

The pain in Draco’s head is excruciating. Apparently, this hallucination doesn’t want him to _expose_ the hallucination to the other hallucinations? That’s not suspicious at _all._

“Draco,” Granger says with dismay, “I don’t hate you. I’m . . . not happy with some of the choices you made in the past. But that’s the point. You did those things in the _past._ You’ve grown and made amends, and I _love you.”_

Draco sneers. “Nice sentiments, Granger. But you’re not fooling me. That’s--” _exactly the cheesy drivel Harry spouts off when I descend into a pool of self-loathing. Not that it happens often because, after all, I am perfection in a tailored suit._

Draco strangles a scream building up in his throat. He digs his fingers into his scalp.

“I _hate_ this!” he yells.

And all of a sudden, Granger has him in her arms, and she’s whispering little nothings of affirmation and love and “just breathe; you’ll be okay; I promise; I love you; just breathe--”

His hallucination apparently cannot be bothered to come up with something new, the still sane part of Draco’s mind observes. The real Hermione Granger would be horrified that Draco’s crazy delusion is feeding him Harry’s lines. He can still hear her rants about plagiarism whenever Harry and Weasel tried to copy her homework.

Not that Draco knew about her rants because he never spent any time with the Golden Trio during their Hogwarts years. Draco would have had to stalk them to know what they talked about, and Draco _never_ stalked them. Ever.

 _Nah, you just stalked_ **_me_ ** _,_ Mental Harry says with a smirk.

“Shut up,” Draco snaps.

He’s already going crazy, and Mental Harry is _not_ helping, and Granger is _still_ stroking his back and arms and neck and hair and--

“SPEW!” Draco cries, suddenly exultant. Granger pulls back and looks at her with raised eyebrows. “That was the name of your weird club at Hogwarts!”

Granger just looks at Draco like he’s some pervy homeless man who smells like rotten fish.

“Um,” says Draco, “I just realized that my statement was really random, but if you think about it, it makes sense. See, I commented on house elves earlier, and you looked at me like I was Death Eater scum, which you know, I _am._ And then I remembered your elf rights thing, but I couldn’t remember if it were SPIT or SPARTA or SPILPATO. So you see--”

“I get it, Draco,” Granger says, her voice suddenly weary. “Please, just . . . eat. I’ll go get your medication.”

Draco sits at the table, his leg bumping up and down nervously the entire time.

He could call Harry. But if he were hallucinating, then he would just be talking to Mental Harry for real. It wouldn’t accomplish anything, except to drive Draco even farther off the cliff.

Not to mention the fact that Draco cannot even try to say Harry’s name without having a mental breakdown.

“You didn’t eat anything,” Granger says.

Draco looks up quickly. Granger is holding a small potions bottle, and a tiny crease has appeared in between her eyebrows.

“I’m not hungry,” says Draco.

“Well, you can’t take this without food, so--”

 _“Legilimens_ me,” Draco blurts out.

Granger’s mouth falls open slightly. She carefully sets the potions vial on the table with such precision Draco half expects it to explode.

“You’ll see,” Draco says desperately, “that something’s wrong, that--” _I’m with Harry, I just fricking proposed to him, and none of this can possibly be real._

Granger says gently, “Draco, Legilimency doesn’t work like that--your mind believes that it’s true, so Legilimency _shows_ it to be true.”

“Because it _is_ true,” Draco says. 

Granger’s face closes like a house without windows.

“Draco,” Granger says flatly. “Please just eat.”

Draco swallows and picks up his fork.

He doesn’t take the potion.

.

Draco sleeps on the couch with scratchy sheets and a flannel blanket that is a rash waiting to happen. 

The foolish part of his mind hopes that this is some weird dream. 

The rational part of his mind knows that everything happening has too many details to be a dream.

Draco stares up at the ceiling until the confusing world swirls away.

.

_Draco stands in the center of a cliched foggy dreamscape. Draco wants to gag. If he’s going to have a weird dream sequence, the least his subconscious could do is do something original._

_“Hello,” Draco says calmly._

_Wait. Draco didn’t say that._

_“Weird, right?” Not Draco asks._

_Draco stares at Not Draco. Not Draco’s eyes have a piercing grey light that cuts through the fog, and his cheekbones look sharp enough to give himself a haircut._

_“Do I really look like that?” Draco asks._

_Not Draco smirks. “Down to every last detail.”_

_“Harry’s right,” Draco says dizzily. “I am_ **_smokin.’_ ** _”_

_“Right,” Not Draco says awkwardly. “About Potter--I mean, Harry. Are you two . . .”_

_“Are you and Granger . . .,” Draco begins to ask at the same time._

_They just look at each other._

_“Granger thinks I’m having an ‘episode,’ whatever that means,” Draco says caustically._

_“Pot--I mean, Harry thinks that I’m having a mental breakdown,” Not Draco says glumly._

_“What in Salazar’s name happened?” Draco demands._

_Not Draco’s lips tense, and his slender fingers tap out a rhythm on his slacks._

_“Alternate universe theory, perhaps?” he says. “Some kind of magical mayhem, I suppose. I’ve already been hexed before, so big surprise. Have you asked Hermione?”_

_“Every time I try to even mention it, I can’t speak,” says Draco. “Was it the same for you?”_

_Not Draco looks away from him, his fingers twitching against his coat._

_“I didn’t . . . I didn’t bring it up,” he finally says._

_Draco stares at his counterpart, at the way Not Draco’s shoulders hunch and his eyes remain fixed on something unseen._

_“You thought you were having an episode, didn’t you?”_

_Not Draco shrugs listlessly._

_“I’ve hallucinated weirder things.”_

_“I wish I could say the same,” Draco says, thinking of the way Granger’s fingers lingered over his skin._

_“Listen,” Not Draco begins to say. The smog starts to creep in, obscuring his form and face from Draco. “In the morning, Hermione should be willing . . .”_

_The fog blocks his voice out completely._

.

Draco wakes up to sunlight walls and spotless floors. 

“Hungry?” Granger calls from the kitchen. 

Draco pushes himself up from the couch. He sees Granger whirling around the kitchen like it’s some kind of Muggle modern dance. For a moment, dismay fills his entire being until he remembers:

He isn’t crazy. He isn’t hallucinating. He’s just been . . . switched. Whatever that means and however that happened—it doesn’t matter. 

Draco is perfectly sane. 

Draco can find a way to get back.

“Aren’t you a feminist?” Draco asks, walking into the kitchen.

“So?” Granger asks.

Draco slides into a chair and watches Granger hesitantly.

“I thought feminists protested cooking because they think it’s sexist,” Draco says.

Granger does not so much as sigh as let out an exasperated huff. The way her nostrils flare reminds Draco of his childhood stuffed dragon. 

“You’re missing the point of feminism,” Granger says, pulling plates and silverware out of the cupboards. “I want equality, which means that I can do whatever I so desire, gender roles be damned. Saying that I can’t like cooking because it’s a traditionally feminine chore defeats the point.”

“But you just said it’s a chore,” Draco points out.

Granger says with infuriating calm, “It’s a chore to many. It’s a hobby for me. Believe me, Draco, if I didn’t want to cook, I wouldn’t.”

She spoons an omelette onto Draco’s plate.

“Do you believe in alternate universes?” Draco finds himself asking.

Granger’s dark brown eyebrow raises, and she studies Draco the same way Severus would look at a particularly puzzling potion.

“I’m reserving judgment,” she says. “It’s impossible to prove as of right now. Why?”

_I had a dream about myself, and I think I got zapped by some kind of hex that shoved me into his disgusting reality and dragged him into mine._

“Maybe there’s an alternate universe where you don’t look at me like I’m a psychotic freak,” Draco says as non-nastily as possible.

Because. He’s trying. Harry is always nagging him to be nicer to Granger and Weasley and the rest of the Gryffindor Gang, and--

“You are not a psychotic freak,” Granger says. “You’re a . . . survivor.”

Draco laughs, but it’s so high that it sounds like a giggle. A nervous breakdown kind of giggle that people in mental hospitals make.

Harry likes to watch odd Muggle horror films, which Draco has never understood.

 _“Our_ ** _life_** _is a horror story,” Draco protested one night, his face pressed into Harry’s stomach. He flinched at the sound of a werewolf tearing into a crazy little girl from the psych ward’s flesh._

_Harry just laughed and wove his fingers through Draco’s hair._

“Draco,” Harry says, tipping up Draco’s chin so they can meet each other’s eyes. “You’re doing it again.

Draco freezes because it’s _not_ Harry, and Granger is touching his face. Once his body catches up to his brain, he wrenches away.

 _“Don’t,”_ he snarls.

The worst of it is that Granger doesn’t even look mad. She just looks tired, like this is a scene that plays out over and over.

“You know this doesn’t make any sense, right?” Draco demands. “You know that this cannot _possibly be real?”_

“Eat your omelette,” Granger says calmly.

 _“Legilimens_ me,” Draco says again.

Granger just ignores him and begins to eat her eggs. Draco glares at her and pokes his eggs with his fork.

The omelette is surprisingly good, although it has an odd aftertaste Draco cannot quite place.

“Is this some kind of spice?” Draco asks. “I’ve never had eggs that taste like this, and I’ve been to France.”

Granger avoids his eyes, and Draco feels his entire body go on high-alert. His eyes dart around the kitchen.

A small potions bottle sits on the counter.

“You drugged me,” Draco says, his voice faint.

“I made sure you took a necessary potion,” Granger corrects, her voice tight.

Draco stares at Granger, trying to summon up the nastiest, most horrible comeback ever. He can only think of something lame, but it’s all he has.

“Yet another reason why we would never be together,” Draco says. “You’re a total ice queen.”

Granger inhales sharply and gets up from the table. Draco half expects to hear bangs and crashes from the other room. But Granger is not all fire and screams and jerky movement like Harry. 

At least one aspect of this idiotic world (hallucinatory? Alternate?) is realistic.

Draco’s head is already starting to feel fuzzy. He rests his forehead on his arms and lets his body fall into a curve.

None of this is real.

 _Keep reminding yourself_ _that_ , Mental Harry says cheerfully. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to let y’all know that I’ll be updating every Sunday. Never fear! I have a plan, so even when it seems like it’s a train wreck, just know that I will give you a happy ending.

Draco doesn’t know what was in that potion, but he hates it. 

Everything feels murky and heavy, as if Draco is trapped in a gelatin mold. 

Granger leaves for work at some point. Draco thinks about asking her if he’s supposed to go to work as well, but he doesn’t know how to phrase it without her thinking that he’s having another psychotic breakdown. He doubts that Not Draco has a job, anyway.

Who would want to hire a Death Eater, let alone one who can’t even distinguish between his own imagination and reality?

The sound of glass shattering on the floor rings in Draco’s ears.

Draco whirls around to find Not Draco standing next to an empty table. The remains of an antique vase lie on the floor. Not Draco smiles sheepishly.

“Oops,” he says. He studies the vase with a cocked eyebrow. “Pity. Hermione loves that vase. I’ve been urging her to get rid of it for ages.”

Draco stares at him blankly, his mouth moving without any sound coming out.

Finally, he manages to croak, “You made it back.”

“Oh, no,” Not Draco says, walking over to Draco. Draco winces at the sound of ceramic shards crunching under Not Draco’s feet. “I’m just . . . here.” He taps Draco’s temple with two fingers.

“I really am insane,” Draco says with no little amazement.

“What--no! I’m communing with you.”

“How?” Draco asks blankly.

“I don’t really know how to explain it.”

Draco’s hands clench at his sides. “What, so you get to contact me but not the other way around?” he hisses. “That’s a power imbalance, and you know it. How are you here?”

“She put you back on the meds, didn’t she,” Not Draco says, ignoring the question.

Draco’s mouth hardens, and he glares at Not Draco. At least, he tries to. The thickness in his head and the fog in his eyes make it hard to maintain eye contact.

“She’s not going to stop,” said Not Draco. “Now that she knows I wasn’t keeping up, she’ll figure out a way to ply you with potions every day.”

“Fine,” Draco says shortly. “I just won’t eat.”

“Congratulations! You just won a one-way ticket to St. Mungo’s.”

“You haven’t explained anything,” Draco snaps. “You just . . . make vague, obnoxious statements and then change the subject whenever I have a question.”

“Now you know what it’s like to be everyone else,” Not Draco says dryly.

“I want to go back,” Draco says through gritted teeth. His father would have been mortified if he were able to see Draco now.

Not Draco sniffs haughtily, and Draco resists the urge to strangle him. Harry is right. Draco  _ is _ an insufferable git when he doesn’t want to talk about something.

“You think it’s been a picnic for me?” Not Draco sneers. “Harry keeps . . . touching me. Smiling at me. Saying unnaturally nice things. It’s  _ disgusting.” _

“Oh, it’s  _ Harry _ now, is it?”

Not Draco flops onto the couch, raking his hand through his hair with a bored expression on his face. 

“Well, I can hardly call him  _ Potter, _ can I?” he huffs. “That’d be like calling Hermione  _ Granger.” _

Draco does not answer right away, and Not Draco sits upright. His eyes swirl with indiscernible emotion. When he speaks, his voice is as tense as a frayed wire stretched past its limits:

“You have, haven’t you?” he demands. “You’ve . . . damn. This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“What is  _ this?” _

“You have to convince her that you’re me,” Not Draco says firmly. “Sane me, anyway. Otherwise . . . it’s been, what, a day? The last time I had a dissociation this long--”

“We aren’t dissociating--”

“Call her Hermione,” Not Draco orders. It takes every ounce of self-control for Draco to resist punching him in the face. “Pretend you know what she’s talking about, and for the love of Merlin, keep taking the Potions.”

“They make me feel weird,” Draco complains in the least whiny voice possible.

“She’ll put you in Mungo’s if she thinks I’m regressing,” Not Draco says. 

For one small moment, Not Draco’s eyes look far too big for his face, and Draco is reminded of his reflection every day in Sixth and Seventh Year.

“That’s messed up,” Draco says.

“Not if you’re crazy.”

Draco stares at Not Draco. He’s the exact same height and shape as Draco, but for some reason, Not Draco seems so much smaller. He’s wearing Draco’s clothes, but they look off, as if Not Draco is unused to the shape of the cloth.

“What happened to you?” Draco whispers.

“The war,” Not Draco says shortly.

“We had the war, too,” Draco protests.

Not Draco just looks at him with such loathing that Draco can barely hold back a flinch. The venom in his eyes is worse than anything Draco has ever seen--the disappointment in Lucius’s eyes whenever Draco failed to live up to his Pureblood name, the disgust on Voldemort’s face after Draco failed at the most basic of tasks, the pity and hatred warring on Harry’s features after Draco’s trial, the random civilians in the street who spit on Draco whenever he passes by . . .

“The difference is, you survived,” Not Draco says.

His voice fades from Draco’s ears, and then his body disappears, too. The only evidence that Not Draco was ever there is the shattered vase on the floor.

.

By the time Granger gets home, Draco has read three books off of her bookshelf. They’re all classic French literature with horrifically depressing ends. He tried to find a book about alternate universes or hexes that allow people to hop dimensions, but he came up empty.

_ Call her Hermione; call her Hermione; call her Hermione, _ Draco silently chants.

“Hermione,” Draco starts to say, hating the taste of her name on his tongue.

Granger shrugs out of her coat and pecks Draco on the lips. Draco’s mind goes momentarily blank.

His hands do not tremble.

“About the vase,” Draco says, “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“About what?” Granger asks, her face scrunching up in confusion.

Draco looks over at the table in the living room and feels his breath stutter in his chest.

The vase is still there, without a crack in sight.

Draco walks over to the trash can and flips the lid open. The only things in there are the remains of this morning’s meal. Draco goes over to the vase and touches it, feeling the cold china under his hand.

He can feel Granger’s eyes on the back of his neck.

“I’m really sorry,” Draco says in the most normal voice he can manage, “that I didn’t break this into a million pieces and throw it in the trash.”

Granger does not look convinced. Draco forces himself to smile at her, then leans in and kisses her cheek.

_ Just pretend it’s Harry, _ Draco tells himself.

_ She’ll put you in St. Mungo’s, _ Not Draco says.

“Kidding,” Draco murmurs against her skin. “I’ll wait until we’re married to throw it out.” 

Granger laughs and smooths his hair away from his face.

“Come help me make tea,” Granger says. She casts a sharp look over her shoulder as she walks into the kitchen. “You did eat lunch, right?”

“Of course,” Draco says, his stomach twisting.

He gives the vase one last glance before following Granger into the kitchen.

.

Per Draco’s request, they go shopping after supper. Convincing Granger was easier than Draco thought--he should have known that all he had to do was mention books for her to agree.

He goes to the section of the book store devoted to abstract Magical Science drivel and just shoves every book that has to do with alternate universes into his cauldron. 

“How very . . . specific,” Granger comments. 

“Oh, you know me,” Draco says. “Obsessive.”

Granger’s eyebrow quirks, and she examines the books Draco selected. 

“Not this one,” she says, pulling out one with a picture of a dragon on its cover. “It’s a fairy tale, but the manager keeps putting it in the nonfiction section.”

“He sounds clever.”

“And not this one,” Granger continues, ignoring the snide note in Draco’s voice as she pulls out one with a smiling author winking from the cover. “It’s complete poppycock, and the author only wrote it to try to convince his professor that they should be madly in love with each other.”

“I feel such pride in the Magical community,” Draco intones flatly. 

“And this one,” Granger hisses, pulling out a leather-bound book with a bunch of fluffy feathers on the cover, “is actually quite brilliant. Definitely read it so we can have a proper discussion later.”

Draco had no idea that shopping for books would be such an emotional roller coaster for Granger, but he is learning new things about her every few minutes.

For example, Granger uses this awful peach shampoo that makes Draco want to gag.

The only reason Draco knows this is because her hair gets everywhere, no matter what they do. When they sit next to each other, when they Apparate,  ~~ when they kiss-- ~~

Yeah. Deleting that memory from his mental recording.

“Hermione!” a chipper voice cries.

Draco feels his spine stiffen as Harry and the Weaslette come skipping over, arm in arm like a pair of Disney princesses. Granger glances at Draco sympathetically and squeezes his hand.

“Oh, hi, Draco,” the Weaslette says dismissively before enveloping Granger in a hug.

Harry does this pathetic hand flop as he hovers in the background.

All of a sudden, the Weaslette releases an ear-splitting squeal and snatches Granger’s hand, holding it up to the light. Draco stares, aghast, at the gleaming wedding ring.

He had forgotten, as stupid as that may seem.

“When?” the Weaslette asks breathlessly.

“Yesterday,” Granger says. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. There was . . . a lot going on.”

Granger and the Weaslette drift off, giggling and whispering like they’re back in Hogwarts. Harry smiles at Draco, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“Congrats, mate,” Harry says.

Draco’s right hand clenches. It’s so unfair. Harry is wearing a ratty red sweater with a misshapen  _ H  _ sewn on the front, and he’s looking at Draco like an entomologist’s best friend might look at a hideously disfigured insect. Fascinating, to be sure, but ultimately not the desired houseguest. Unfortunately, the best friend has to at least pretend not to feel overwhelming disgust, out of respect for their weird, bug-loving friend.

Merlin, Draco wants to slam Harry into a wall and roll around with him in a field of daisies (in that specific order).

Could Harry tell? Draco’s reactions are quite slow, thanks to Granger’s rubbish potion, but he has never been good at keeping his emotions under wraps. Harry liked to call it  _ broadcasting. _

_ “You’re like a telly,” Harry remarked one night. “Always putting on a show.” _

_ “What’s a telly?” Draco asked.  _

“I suppose you’ll be in the wedding,” Draco says coolly. 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to slap himself. Where in Salazar’s name is his mind-to-mouth filter?

The drugs have killed it. They  _ Avada Kedavra’ed  _ it out of existence.

Unpredictably, Harry’s face lights up. Draco feels his stomach clench at the sight of Harry’s brilliant green eyes.

Screw Harry. It’s not enough for him to be fit, is it? It’s not enough for him to be the savior of the universe _. _ No, he has to have eyes so green that they might as well be a bunch of emeralds strewn across a grassy meadow with  _ Avada Kedavra _ spells bouncing all around.

“Really?” Harry asks.

“You’re Hermione’s best friend,” Draco says shortly. “Pretty sure she’s going to want you to be up there.”

Draco has to stop looking at Harry’s face because the drugs are seriously limiting his self-control. He turns his focus to the dreadful red sweater. Unfortunately, the longer he stares at it, the less horrible it looks--partly because red has always made Harry’s face look warm and  _ alive _ and partly because Harry can pull off pretty much anything.

Blasted wording. Now all Draco can think about is pulling the damn thing off.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks. “You’re kinda . . . death-glaring at my sweater.”

“Maybe try to wear something that doesn’t look like trash, then,” Draco snaps.

Yeah, that would go down  _ so  _ well, pulling off Harry’s sweater and shoving him against the bookshelf for a passionate make-out session. No one would think that he lost his mind  _ at all. _

The door to the bookstore swings open, and a gaggle of girls pour in, all giggling and wearing _ Boy Who Lived  _ merchandise. Beside Draco, Harry’s breath hitches, and his shoulders hunch as his eyes skitter around, looking for an escape route.

_ Harry trying to keep up his smile as the twenty-sixth person asks for a hug and autograph, Harry flinching every time someone random in the street thinks it’s okay to touch him without permission, Harry having a mental breakdown at a restaurant because wizards start swarming their table once they realize the Boy Who Lived is sitting among them-- _

Draco grabs Harry’s hand and pushes through the shelves into a secluded corner mostly blocked by 18th century potions recipes.

Harry’s breath does not calm. If anything, it speeds up.

“Harry,” Draco whispers, mindful that the fangirls could find them at any moment. “Harry, breathe with me.”

In for four seconds. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

Eventually, Harry’s pulse returns to its steady pace.

“Malfoy,” Harry whispers, his eyes wide.

Draco belatedly realizes that his hands are framing the curves of Harry’s face. His cheeks flushing (curse his pale complexion!), Draco lets go and steps back.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“You called me  _ Harry,” _ Harry says, a dazed expression in his eyes.

Draco stiffens.

He’s an idiot. He is an absolute  _ idiot-- _

“But I guess,” Harry says dreamily, “since you’re marrying ‘Mione, we’ll practically be brothers.” He grins at Draco cheekily. “Draco.”

The weight of Harry’s smile has crushed the air out of Draco’s lungs.

Those books on alternate universes better give Draco an instant recipe on how to get out of this hellhole excuse of a universe.

.

“Where’s  _ your  _ ring?” the Weaslette inquires.

Draco glances down at his hand as he walks down the street. For whatever logic-forsaken reason, Granger and the Wealette decided to make this a group outing.

Oh, Merlin. She’s not the  _ Weaslette _ here, is she? She’s a  _ Potter. _

A vague choking noise that Draco cannot quite control slips past his lips.

“You okay, mate?” Harry asks. 

He’s wearing a horrendous knit hat and oversized sunglasses to try to disguise himself, which Draco thinks is a pathetic endeavor. What, the appearance of Granger, the Weaslette, and Draco walking alongside him is not enough for people to guess who he is?

Idiot Gryffindor.

“Yeah, where did you put your ring?” Granger asks.

“I . . . I can’t remember,” Draco says.

It’s true. Draco cannot remember something if he did not do it.

Granger looks slightly pained, but the Weaslette seems to find it hilarious. She playfully slaps Granger’s arm.

“Better keep an eye on him,” she jokes. “You got a player in the makings on your hands.”

Maybe Harry sees the discomfort on both Granger’s and Draco’s faces because he quickly changes the subject:

“Have you decided on colors yet?” he asks.

Draco relaxes. It’s a surefire way to keep the Weaslette at least occupied. To his surprise, Granger is equally invested in giggling over wedding plans with her.

Odd. Draco always thought that Granger was too practical to care about those kinds of things, too . . . Harry.

_ “Come on, Chosen One,” Draco sneers. “You saved the world from the Dark Lord, but you can’t decide whether you like emerald green or spring green better?” _

_ “He’s called Voldemort,” Harry huffs. “And they look the exact same to me. Does it really matter? Green is green.” _

_ Draco stares at Harry with horror. _

_ “Do I  _ **_have_ ** _ to be here? You seem to have it all planned out,” Harry says, a whiny note creeping into his voice. _

_ “We’re doing this as a couple,” Draco says firmly. “That’s the entire point.” _

_ “Fine.” Harry crosses his arms and smirked. “I want red.  _ **_Gryffindor_ ** _ red.” _

_ Draco inhales sharply and busies himself with sorting color swatches. _

_ “On second thought, I think I’ll handle this myself,” Draco says. _

_ Harry just laughs. _

Wait. That wasn’t right . . .

Draco grips his hair, his breath coming in short spurts.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong--

“Draco?”

“Draco, are you okay?”

“Mate--”

“Breathe, Draco--”

They never discussed colors. They hadn’t even  _ begun  _ to plan the wedding _ \-- _ Draco had only just proposed.

It didn’t happen. So why does Draco remember it?

_ The sly slip of Harry’s smile as he kisses the corner of Draco’s mouth, the rough calluses of his palm as he flattens Draco’s hand over the slips of silk-- _

Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong--

Draco is dimly aware of Granger Apparating them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. O.o My hand slipped.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it’s early. Don’t expect this to be a regular thing, though.
> 
> (Lookin at you, Saltedkiss.) (jk ily)
> 
> Oh, btw there’s a scene in here that is kinda sexual but there’s nothing explicit so don’t worry, my fellow ace friends! (And anyone uncomfy with sex)

Three days pass.

Granger makes sure Draco takes the potion every morning at breakfast. She tries to make the taste better by slipping it into his tea or his food, but all it does is makes his food and tea taste like swill. 

Draco tries to read the books. He really does, but the medication makes his head feel too heavy. The words swim across his field of vision, and Draco drowns underneath a torrent of fuzzy colors and blurred letters.

Granger slips beside him on the couch and whispers, “You should come to bed, Draco.”

Draco is too tired to say no.

They sleep curled up against each other with Draco’s face buried in Granger’s mass of hair. 

He does not cry.

.

_ “Sorry about all that,” Not Draco says casually. _

_ “About all what?” Draco asks numbly. _

_ “The, uh, thing. With the colors for the groomsmen. I didn’t mean to . . . I’m just trying not to ruin it for you, you know?” Not Draco asks, his eyes anxious. “So when we switch back--” _

_ “That was you?” Draco asks. He tries to produce a snarl, but his tongue is not cooperating. _

_ “Yeah? I thought that was obvious.” _

_ Draco’s hands begin to shiver, and he stuffs them into his pockets to hide the tremor. _

_ “Everyone thinks I’m crazy,” Draco says. _

_ “Well, you are,” Not Draco says glibly. “That is, I am, and you’re currently me. So obviously--” _

_ “What did you do?” Draco asks. “How did I--” _

**_“I_ ** _ did nothing,” Not Draco says primly. “You did that all on your own. Gave me the shock of my life, too.” _

_ “How?” _

_ “No clue,” Not Draco says.  _

_ “How did you do it?” _

_ “Again, no idea. That’s why it was unnecessary information—there was no information to be had.” _

_ Inside his right pockets, Draco’s fingers curl into a fist. He wonders the amount of loathing he feels for his alternate self is a reflection of his own self-esteem.  _

_ “Do you know  _ **_anything?”_ ** _ Draco asks coldly.  _

_ Not Draco’s face twitches in a most painful way, and Draco’s mind flits back to the darkness in his eyes when they brought up the war. Before Draco can say anything, the angles of Not Draco’s face smooth back into complacency.  _

_ “I’ve looked into some of the theories about alternate universes,” Not Draco says. “I can’t find anything that will let us switch back. I don’t even know how we got switched on the first place.” _

_ “Again,” Draco grits out. “What  _ **_do_ ** _ you know?” _

_ Not Draco’s shoulders tense, and he slips back into smoke.  _

_. _

“Wanna go to Taco Bell?” Harry asks Ginny in a sultry Midwestern accent. They’re making goo-goo eyes at each other, and it is  _ disgusting. _ Draco feels the urge to sanitize the air around him because all this sexual tension is highly inappropriate.

For some reason, Granger and the Weaslette find Harry’s dumb suggestion hilarious. 

“I don’t get it,” Draco says blankly.

The Weaslette gasps. “You’ve never been to Taco Bell? How have you  _ lived, _ Draco?”

“More importantly,” Harry cuts in, “you’ve never seen  _ Mean Girls?” _

Draco closes his eyes and curls up on the couch, his head on Granger’s lap. It is not as weird as Draco thought it would be. It just reminds him of all the awkward times with Pansy when Draco felt obligated to pretend he was straight.

“All right,” Granger says, propping Draco up. “This is ridiculous. I’m seeing the Healer about changing your meds.”

Draco’s gaze darts to the Weaslette and Harry with dismay. He is unsure of why he does not want anyone to talk about it. It seems very clear that everyone knows Draco is crazy, so there is no point trying to hide it.

But  _ Harry. _ Draco cannot bear the thought of Harry knowing how screwed up he is, especially here where he doesn’t love Draco in spite of all his screw-ups or where he never looks at Draco like he is something beautiful and  _ worthy, _ scars and Death Eater past and all.

“You were getting better,” Granger frets. “It’s not--there’s something wrong. They shouldn’t make you act like this.”

Draco looks at Harry and the Weaslette again. The latter looks naturally uncomfortable, but Harry just looks worried.

Bloody hero complex.

Draco smiles. Perhaps he should feel concerned about the amount of effort it takes for him to perform the simple act of turning up his lips.

It’s not that odd. Draco felt like this almost the entirety of eighth year. He was too tired to fight back, too tired to pretend to be happy or nonchalant or unhappy. It was just drifting.

_ Harry grabbed Draco by his robes, and Draco was too startled to pull away. _

_ “Would you snap out of it?” Harry yelled. “The war is  _ **_over,_ ** _ for Merlin’s sake!” _

_ Draco thought about the bruises swirling up and down his body and the scars that would not go away, no matter what Potion or spell Draco tried. _

_ The Mark on his arm. _

_ “Not for me,” Draco said, aware of how hollow he sounded. _

“So,” Draco says, forcing his voice to seem normal, “Taco Bell?”

.

Draco has no idea why the Weaslette and Harry were so excited about Taco Bell.

“This is racist,” Draco says, poking his taco with the cheap plastic fork. “I’ve been to Mexico, and nothing here looks--”

“It’s Tex Mex,” the Weaslette pipes up.

Draco stares at her with as much disdain as he can afford.

“It’s good as long as you pretend it’s not not supposed to be Mexican,” Granger says.

Draco looks at her with betrayal. He expected  _ better _ of her.

“Guys,” Harry says with dismay, “he’s on an all carb diet. MERLIN, WE ARE SO STUPID!”

Once again, the Weaslette and Granger fall over, crying from laughter.

An exasperated sigh falls out of Draco’s mouth, and he stares out the window. Anything,  _ anything,  _ would be better than the sight of nacho cheese dribbling from Harry’s mouth.

The fork falls out of his hand.

Outside, Severus is standing next to a scrawny excuse of a tree and muttering incantations as he presses his palm against its trunk.

“You okay?” Granger asks, squeezing Draco’s hand.

Draco looks at Granger, at the soft curve of her face and the concern in her eyes.

“I--” Draco glances back out the window. Snape is nowhere to be found. “I thought I saw someone.”

Granger’s eyebrows draw together.

Harry and the Weaslette keep making ridiculous inside jokes that are only funny to them. Draco can barely hear them over the roar of his own thoughts.

He couldn’t have seen Severus. Even if Severus were still alive, he would certainly never be at a  _ Taco Bell, _ of all magic-forsaken places. It was just . . . someone who looked like Severus.

_ Right, _ Mental Harry says with a snort,  _ because so many wizards have long, greasy black hair and walk around in all-black robes in the middle of the summer. _

Severus was apparently a hero all this time, according to Harry. Maybe some wizards are trying to emulate him.

_ You and I are the only ones who actually believed in him after his death, _ Mental Harry says.

Draco’s nails dig into his leg.

“Say, Harry, Ginny,” Granger says apologetically, “I hate to cut this short, but I have a really early trial tomorrow. I need to get some stuff in order before it gets too late.”

“No problem, ‘Mione,” Harry says cheerfully. 

In Draco’s opinion, Harry and the Weaslette look rather happy to be rid of him and Granger.

Granger and Draco Apparate back to their flat. Draco tries to go back to the bedroom, but Granger catches his arm.

“Draco . . .” Her voice trails off, and a tiny wrinkle furrows between her eyebrows. 

She’s going to have a vicious worry line when she’s old, and Draco is never going to let her forget it.

Draco shakes his head, trying to rid his mind of those confusing thoughts. He’s not going to make fun of Granger in the future because he’s going to get back.

Back to Harry. Back to a world where Harry’s letters come back unopened and she avoids their eyes whenever they meet in public.

Unexpectedly, Draco feels a twinge in his chest. Which is stupid--he does not even  _ like _ Granger. He does not care that Granger snubbed them once he and Harry made their relationship public.

_ “Good riddance,” Draco said to Harry one night. “You’re worth ten of her, anyway.” _

_ “Ron’s not talking to me, either,” Harry said, looking like a painting of misery. _

_ “Their problem,” Draco said gently, “not yours.” _

_ He meant what he said. If Granger and Weasley could not get their heads out of whatever hole they buried themselves in, then Harry deserved better friends. _

_ “Is this a mistake?” Harry asked, and  _ **_Merlin,_ ** _ that hurt. The little catch in Harry’s voice felt like a knife to Draco’s heart. “I mean, Blaise and Pansy aren’t talking to you, and I just--” _

_ Draco kissed Harry in the middle of his sentence, and Harry automatically turned his face up. His kisses were greedy and demanding, and Draco felt as if his whole body were being set ablaze. _

_ He worried, though, about what would happen when Harry decided the kisses did nothing to make up for everything else. _

“Tea?” Granger asks.

Draco follows her into the kitchen and watches her put the kettle on.

“Am I a leech?” Draco asks.

Granger’s hands freeze as she goes to grab a pair of mugs.

“I don’t have a job,” Draco says. “And I don’t cook or clean or anything. I’m just . . . here. Living off of you.”

“We have a cleaning lady,” Hermione says.

“That you pay for.”

“You’re rich, Draco,” Granger says dryly. “I don’t think you have to worry about money.”

She’s still talking, something about how Draco is certainly welcome to getting a job if he wants one and the importance of a good work ethic and the psychological benefits of finding one’s place in the world, but Draco is not paying attention.

He has money. He’s  _ rich. _

They froze his account before the trial and then they just never got around to  _ unfreezing _ it, despite Harry’s many petitions.

Later, her hands wrapped around her mug as she inhales steam rising from her tea, Granger asks, “Who did you see?”

Draco takes a long sip of tea.

“No one. It doesn’t matter,” Draco says.

“It didn’t look like no one,” Granger says softly. “Not to you, at least.”

“Don’t you have a trial to prepare for?”

“I lied,” Granger says blandly.

Draco’s hands tighten around his mug.

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco says, his eyes stinging. “I thought . . . It wasn’t the person I thought it was.”

Granger bites her lip. She looks at Draco the way Harry did during the entirety of eighth year and all the years after that.

_ “I’m not fragile,” Draco snapped. _

_ “I never said you were.” _

_ “Then stop looking at me like I’m some kind of glass teacup.” _

“Tomorrow,” Granger says, “I think we should go see a Healer.”

“Why? So they can tell us what we already know?”

“Your medication shouldn’t be altering your mood this much,” Granger says. 

Draco exhales shortly and lets his head fall onto Granger’s shoulder. 

Maybe Draco can convince them that he does not need medication. It would certainly be easier to research how to get back if Draco is of sound mind. 

A sound mind off drugs, that is. 

“Tomorrow,” Draco mumbles. 

He can feel the sigh that rides the lines of Granger’s frame.

.

_ Hands rove up and down Draco’s body, and his fingers entangle in Harry’s untamed hair as they kiss without leaving enough room for air. _

_ They end up on the bed, Draco breathless and wide-eyed as he stares up at Harry. Harry is not even trying to hide his grin--it overtakes his entire face. He looks at Draco like the former Death Eater is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. _

_ A strangled noise escapes Draco’s throat. _

_ Because he’s not on the bed. He’s standing in the doorway as Harry presses kiss after kiss into Not Draco’s neck, along his jawline, down his throat, and into the hollow of his neck. _

_ Not Draco’s eyes meet Draco’s. _

_ “Harry,” Not Draco gasps. “Harry, wait.” _

_ Not Draco shoves Harry’s chest, and Harry pulls away, his eyes wide. _

_ “What’s wrong?” Harry asks, his breath uneven. _

_ Not Draco stares at Draco, his eyes unreadable. _

_ “I’m really tired,” Not Draco says. “Can we just . . .” _

_ Disappointment flashes across Harry’s face before he offers another smile, this one much smaller. _

_ “Of course,” he says. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t screw anything up, did I?” _

_ “No, I’m just . . . I don’t really feel like having sex tonight,” Not Draco says. _

_ They lie next to each other on the bed, hands loosely linked and chests rising and falling far too quickly. _

_ “Sorry,” Not Draco says, his eyes still on Draco’s face. _

_ “Don’t be,” Harry says. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.” _

_ “That’s not—“ Not Draco shakes his head, his hair swirling around him. “Never mind.” _

_ Draco watches as Not Draco curls up against Harry’s body, his face pressed into Harry’s collarbone. Harry’s hand automatically rises and strokes the back of Not Draco’s head.  _

.

Draco retches over the toilet, but the only thing that comes up is bile.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

_ The look of ecstasy on Harry’s face-- _

Draco heaves again, his back shaking and his throat raw.

_ The reverent way he touched Not Draco’s body— _

Hands slip against his scalp and hold back his hair.

“Breathe,” Granger whispers.

The emptiness in his stomach, the poison in his lungs, and the acid in his heart all rise up from his throat.

“I think I need a Draught of Peace,” Draco chokes out, his voice ragged.

.

Granger brews tea while Draco makes the Draught of Peace. His hands shake so much that he can barely keep the spoon steady.

“Sorry, I would have made more if I had known we were out,” Granger says.

Draco can barely hear her over the roar of Harry’s rapid breath.

“I woke you up,” Draco says.

“It’s not a big deal,” Granger says.

“You have a trial tomorrow,” Draco says.

“Today,” corrects Granger because . . . yeah, it’s that late. Or early. Her hand covers Draco’s, and a smile pushes up the corner of her mouth. “And I was lying, remember?”

“Still,” Draco says unsteadily. “I should have been quieter.”

Granger’s face grows pinched.

“I wish you would talk to me about these things,” she says.

Draco’s gaze drops back down to his potion.

“I think the tea is done,” Draco says.

They sit at the table, hands curled around steaming mugs and Draco’s tea mixed with the Draught of Peace.

“How--how can you tell?” Draco asks, his voice cracking. “What’s real?”

Granger’s hands clasp around his.

“Ask,” she says gently.

He shouldn’t. This isn’t his world, and everything Granger feeds him will be a load of poppycock.

But if he knows the lies, it will be much easier to maintain them.

“You pity me,” Draco says.

“Not true,” Granger says. Her grip tightens. “Not even close.”

“Then how could you  _ ever _ want to be with me?” Draco demands, frustration bleeding into his voice.

It shouldn’t matter. But nothing about Not Draco makes sense, and at the moment, Draco can barely handle one more nonsensical element.

He also needs to keep the image of Harry pressing kisses into Not Draco’s skin out of his head.

Granger hesitates for a long time.

“It was three years after the war,” she whispers. “You were so very pale, and you weren’t even trying to hide your scars. . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please scream at me. I feed off of your pain.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was almost not going to post this because I was confused and tired. Also, why are Harry and Not Draco watching a movie in the morning? Does Harry ever go to work? Finally, after days of trying to edit, I was just like F THIS CHAPTER IT’S SATURDAY so
> 
> Here you are
> 
> The next chapter might be late because college is overwhelming me and I feel the crippling tug of anxiety daily. 🙃🙃🙃 I promise I will get you your update, though! It just might take a while.

_ “What the  _ **_hell_ ** _ was last night?” Draco demands. _

_ Not Draco’s face freezes, and his shoulders tense. _

_ “Yes. That . . .” Not Draco clears his throat. “That was a mistake.” _

_ “A MISTAKE?!” Draco explodes. “YOU NEARLY SLEPT WITH HIM!’ _

_ Not Draco flinches. _

_ “I . . .” The rise and fall of his chest stutters. “I know, I--” _

_ “Get your own fiance,” Draco snarls. “Oh, wait! You already have one! Gee, I bet Granger would  _ **_love_ ** _ to hear about how you tried to hop into Harry’s bed.” _

_ “I didn’t--” _

_ “I have been  _ **_stuck_ ** _ in your pathetic, hand-me-downs for the past five days!” Draco shouts. “Your pathetic mental break-downs, your obsessive-compulsive  _ **_control freak_ ** _ of a girlfr--” _

_ Not Draco grabs Draco by his shirt and slams him against the wall. _

_ “Don’t  _ **_ever_ ** _ speak about Hermione like that,” Not Draco hisses. “You know nothing— _ **_nothing—_ ** _ about my life!” _

_ Draco shoves him away, his fingers curling into fists.  _

_ “Forgive me for not weeping over your depressing tale,” Draco says. “Believe me, I’m just  _ **_oozing_ ** _ with sympathy on the inside.”  _

_ Not Draco’s eyes do this odd flicker that somehow makes it look like he’s flinching without him moving a limb.  _

_ “It won’t happen again,” Not Draco says, his voice wavering. “I’m sorry, I thought—I was drunk, and—“ _

_ “You don’t see me getting inebriated and hopping into bed with  _ **_your_ ** _ fiancé,” Draco snaps.  _

_ Not Draco swallows, the lines and curves of his throat shifting in the shadows.  _

_ “Granger deserves better than you,” Draco says.  _

_ He’s not sure where this sentiment comes from. But it’s  _ **_there_ ** _ , clawing at the back of his mind with utmost certainty.  _

_ Granger sticks with Not Draco through his panic attacks, she holds back his hair when he hurls, and she apparently loves him enough to agree to marry him, despite his obviously screwed up brain.  _

_ She’s still annoying and overbearing, but that doesn’t mean that she deserves a git who hops around into other people’s sheets.  _

_. _

“Draco. Draco, wake up.”

A hand gently shakes his shoulder, and Draco groans, burrowing into his covers. 

“Go ‘way, Pansy,” Draco mumbles. “Merlin, you’re such a  _ menace.” _

“Not Pansy,” Granger says, her voice cool but amused. “Still a menace, though.”

Draco pulls the covers over his head. 

“‘M  _ tired,” _ Draco whines. 

Granger yanks the covers down. 

“I wonder why,” she says. “Come on. Up. We’re going to the Healers.”

“Our trashy romance took  _ three hours  _ to tell,” Draco complains. 

It was so  _ boring,  _ too. Blah blah pining, blah blah pity, blah blah hate sex, blah blah true love. Draco honestly doesn’t know how he managed to stay awake. 

Granger just laughs and drags Draco up to a sitting position. 

Draco’s breath hitches. Behind Granger stands Harry, his hair rumpled and pillow creases all over his face. He smiles at Draco in his lazy morning way. 

“What are you doing here?” Draco demands. 

Granger cups Draco’s cheek, guiding his eyes back to hers. 

“Draco,” she says gently, “no one’s there.”

Draco can feel his chest stuttering in its rise and fall. 

“I—“

Too high, too high, too high. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll fix this,” Granger says. 

Mental Harry just laughs. 

“She always  _ was _ an optimist,” he says cheerfully. 

.

_ A movie plays on Harry’s laptop, but neither Harry nor Not Draco pay it any mind.  _

_ Instead, Harry has his face buried into Not Draco’s clavicle.  _

_ “I just wish they would talk to me,” Harry says, painfully plaintive.  _

_ Not Draco’s face tightens.  _

_ “I know,” he whispers.  _

_ Draco’s stomach twists as Not Draco laces his fingers around the back of Harry’s neck, right at the tip of his hair.  _

_ Draco imagines all the ways he could kill Not Draco and get away with it.  _

_ “Maybe,” Not Draco says hesitantly, “you could . . . Owl them. Or meet up for tea.” _

_ Harry jerks back as if Not Draco slapped him, and Draco stifles a curse.  _

_ Draco would  _ **_never_ ** _ suggest for Harry to do such a thing. After everything that happened (the screaming matches, the abrupt cut-offs, the mind-numbing silence), Draco would have hexed the first person to suggest that  _ **_Harry_ ** _ be the one to try to patch things up.  _

_ “I thought you hated them,” Harry says.  _

_ Not Draco hesitates.  _

_ “You don’t,” he says.  _

_ “They treated you like shite,” Harry snaps, his voice much too tight for Draco’s liking.  _

_ “I  _ **_was_ ** _ a Death Eater,” Not Draco points out in his Reasonable and Mature Voice.  _

_ Merlin, he sounds insufferable. Draco shudders—no wonder Harry had to try so hard not to kill him during their Hogwarts years. Draco was practically  _ **_asking_ ** _ for it if he had sounded anything like Not Draco.  _

_ “You changed,” Harry said sharply.  _

_ “True,” Not Draco says, “and perhaps they have as well.” _

_ “Why are you defending them?” Harry demands, tearing away from Not Draco. “After all the things they said about you—about _ **_me—_ ** _ “ His voice cracking, Harry clenches his hands into fists. “You’re the one who wanted to drop them.” _

_ “I—“ Not Draco catches Draco’s eye, and the former’s mouth shuts with an audible click. “So I did.” _

_ Draco can practically see the calculations running through Not Draco’s mind.  _

_ “The thing is, Harry,” Not Draco says, “it’s always a good thing to have people in power on your side.” _

_ Harry practically pouts. _

_ “I have power,” he says almost petulantly. “Ish. I mean, I did save the world.” _

_ Draco wants to scream. He is  _ **_this_ ** _ close to trying to tackle Harry to the ground and kiss him until their lips bleed, even though he knows he would just pass through Harry like a ghost.  _

_ Not Draco laughs.  _

_ “I was thinking Ministry of Magic power,” he says. “After all, being a former child savior only gets you so far. It’s the lawyers and Aurors that hold all the cards.” _

_ Harry huffs and thunks his forehead against Not Draco’s collarbone.  _

_ “You are  _ **_such_ ** _ a Slytherin,” he groans into Not Draco’s shirt.  _

_ Draco’s shirt really, but who’s counting? He’s not obsessing over the fact that Not Draco gets Harry  _ **_and_ ** _ Draco’s favorite shirt at all.  _

_ “Are you sure that’s the only reason?” Harry asks in a small voice that makes Draco want to find all three Dursleys and hex them into bleeding messes on the floor.  _

_ “You miss your friends,” Not Draco says. “I miss my money.” _

_ Harry smacks Not Draco’s arm.  _

_ Draco doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.  _

_. _

Draco and Granger sit in a restaurant, presumably waiting for their food to come out. This should be fine. This should be normal. 

But Draco has no idea when or how they got there. 

“It should only be a couple of days,” Granger says. 

Draco nods, attempting to smile like a normal, well-functioning wizard. 

“You don’t mind?” Granger asks anxiously, her leg jittering under the table. 

Draco pushes her knee down so her foot rests flat on the floor. 

“Of course not,” Draco says, scrambling to figure out what it is that he is trying not to mind. 

The server brings out their tea, and Granger pours herself a cup. She looks to be readying herself for battle, using the steam rising from her tea as a shield. 

“But what do you think about it all?” Granger asks. 

Draco can barely hear her. All his attention is focused on his hand resting on Granger’s leg. 

He needs to move his hand. He  _ wants _ to move his hand, but he can barely breathe. 

Draco puts his hand on Harry’s thigh (and vice versa) all the time. Usually, Draco tries to be more discreet, but Harry has perfected the art of squeezing Draco’s leg at the most unfitting of occasions with a solemn Chosen One, Savior of the Wizarding World, expression plastered on his face. 

He shouldn’t be touching Granger because it’s  _ uncomfortable  _ and  _ weird,  _ and Merlin, Draco is way too gay for any of this. 

But if he moves his hand, will Granger notice something is off? Draco is sure that—based on the way Not Draco practically throws himself at Harry—Granger is used to it. She probably  _ expects  _ it. 

“It could be worse,” Mental Harry offers pleasantly. “It could be Ron Weasley.”

Draco squeezes his eyes shut. What he would do to rid himself of  _ that _ mental image. 

“You’re welcome,” Mental Harry says smugly. 

“Draco?”

Granger touches Draco’s cheek, and his eyes fly open. He yanks his hand away as if Granger’s leg were on fire. 

“I don’t—“ Draco winces at how high his voice sounds. He forces it to go back down. “I don’t remember how we got here.”

Granger’s face barely reacts. 

“We went to the Healers,” she says, all matter-of-fact, as if Draco is not having a mental breakdown. “We decided to come here for tea because neither of us felt like cooking, and now we’re waiting on the roast.”

“What did the Healer say?” Draco asks. 

He is not locked up in St. Mungo’s, so at least he has that small consolation. 

“We’re going to wait for the Potion to leave your system, and then we’re going back to run some tests,” Granger says. Her brow crinkles. “Are you okay?”

Draco wants to bury his face into his arms and scream. But he has dignity to uphold. He has the  _ Malfoy name  _ to uphold. 

Also, if Draco buries his face into his arms, he might never come back out. 

“I’m well, and you?” Draco asks, taking a sip of his tea. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Granger says. 

Draco pretends that he doesn’t notice his hand is shaking. He quickly sets the teacup down on the table. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Draco says. 

His voice sounds faint, even to his ears. 

.

“. . . so naturally, alternate universe theory leads to the supposition that nurture and nature are inherently  _ linked.  _ There’s no point to the debate if—“

Draco stares at Granger as she bustles around the living room, grabbing books and peering at their covers before sliding them back in. 

“Naturally,” Draco repeats. 

“Naturally,” Mental Harry mocks, dropping into the couch next to Draco and laying his head on Draco’s lap.

Draco freezes. The weight of Harry’s hair and the warmth of his head pressed up against Draco’s legs are all too real. 

“Draco, are you even listening to me?” Granger asks impatiently. 

“Alternate universe theory,” Draco says, his voice cracking. “Nature vs. nurture. Please, continue.”

He finished eating with Granger, then they Apparated home. They started talking about alternate universe theory. This was fine. This was normal. There totally wasn’t a gaping hole where his memories of this should be. 

“If an alternate universe exists wherein a small factor in a person’s childhood is changed, that factor will inevitably alter that person’s destiny. However, such a change will also affect what happens to the children they birth, which leads to their inherent nature.”

Granger sits next to Draco. Draco tries not to flinch as she sinks through Mental Harry’s body like nothing is there. 

After all,  _ nothing is there.  _

“Of course, alternate universe theory also includes changing a person’s nature. If a person is born a certain way, it goes to stand that a universe exists where they are born a different way, thus leading to different nurturing environments and life outcomes.”

“Like a universe where you  _ aren’t  _ a raging homosexual who’s hopelessly in love with your arch nemesis,” Mental Harry says, batting his eyelashes. 

“Right,” Draco says. 

Granger starts to talk again, but Mental Harry speaks louder. 

“Well, I suppose Hermione  _ was _ your arch nemesis in a way. The look on your  _ face  _ whenever she got higher marks than you!”

“You mean, every day?” Draco asks absentmindedly. 

Granger stops speaking and stares at him. 

“Huh?” she asks. 

Draco shakes his head. 

“I—nothing. Keep talking.”

Mental Harry laughs. 

.

“Okay, so maybe it was a mistake to tell you to take the Potions,” says Not Draco after Granger leaves to go work on her mind-numbing lawyer business. 

“You think?” Draco hisses. “What do they  _ put _ in there?”

Not Draco picks nonexistent lint off his shirt—his shirt which probably smells like Harry. 

“In my defense, I assumed you had the same . . . problems as I do. I just thought you were better at hiding it.”

Draco has to close his eyes and take several deep breaths to ignore that imbecilic comment. But all this does is remind him of the  _ other _ idiotic thing Not Draco did. 

Not Draco stares at a fixed spot in the air, his shoulders curved in. Draco should be happy about this, but the silence drags on for so long that he doesn’t know what to do. 

“Maybe they’ll believe what happened,” Draco finally says. “Once the drugs are gone.”

Not Draco rolls his eyes. 

“Ah, yes, because everyone believes the former psych ward patient when he claims to come from another dimension,” he sneers. 

“How bad could it have been?” Draco asks dismissively. 

Cheating waste of cellular presence aside, Not Draco is still a Malfoy. Malfoys don’t  _ do _ mental illness. 

“Says the one who used to be suicidal,” Mental Harry says dryly. 

“They had to strap me down while I screamed like a first year trapped in the Whomping Willow,” Not Draco says lazily. He smiles at Draco, his teeth just verging on a shark’s grin. 

Draco blanches. 

“Too many Crucio’s,” Not Draco says with a nonchalant shrug. “Apparently, that’s bad for your health.”

“But you’re—you’re better now,” Draco says. 

Not Draco laughs, this ugly, sharp noise ripping through his throat. 

“I’m not a raving lunatic now,” he says. “There’s a difference.”

.

“You know what this is, of course.”

Draco’s head jerks up, and his breath hiccups. Severus sits across from him in Granger’s living room, absentmindedly playing with his wand. 

“I don’t—you—“

“There’s a  _ reason _ some Potions are prescribed according to individual cases, idiot child,” Severus sneers. 

It took two bottles of wine and over three days of sleep deprivation for Harry to tell Draco what happened to Severus. Now whenever Draco thinks of Severus, he imagines two gaping holes in his godfather’s neck, blood trailing down, into his hair and robes and a puddle on the floor. 

“I didn’t take any today,” Draco says, aware of how close to breaking his voice is. 

He shouldn’t be talking to Severus. He  _ knows  _ Severus isn’t really there, so engaging him in conversation is tantamount to idiocy. 

But then, Draco has always been slow. 

Severus’s eyes soften minimally. Or maybe Draco is just looking for it,  _ wanting _ it, because dead people feel no sympathy, particularly when their death is the other person’s fault. 

“Your body is struggling to compensate,” Severus says. “It will take some time before the Potions are completely out of your system.”

“I keep hallucinating,” Draco says. “I keep seeing—“

He chokes on Harry’s name, and Mental Harry grins at him, doing this obnoxious finger wave over Severus’s head. 

The shadows in Severus’s eyes grow deeper still. 

“You aren’t crazy, Draco,” Severus says wearily. 

“Then why are you  _ here _ ?” Draco wails. 

“Hysterical much, love?” Mental Harry asks. 

Draco’s nails dig into his legs. 

“Please stop talking,” Draco begs, trying and failing to make his voice sound normal. 

Severus’s fingers close around Draco’s wrists. 

“Kindly desist from harming yourself,” Severus says coolly. 

Draco can’t inhale enough air, no matter how hard he tries. The room looks too blurry and bright to be real, and Mental Harry keeps smiling at him like nothing is wrong. 

“I just want everything to be normal again,” says Draco. 

Severus wraps Draco in his arms, and Draco seethes at the way he automatically leans into this ghost, this addled memory that could never be. 

“That’s called  _ desperation,” _ Mental Harry says brightly. 

“I know, Dragon,” Severus whispers into Draco’s hair. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😱😱😱 What’s happening right now?!!! Gooooood question. Draco sure as heck doesn’t know.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm, be careful? I guess? TW mentions of suicide (but no actual suicide) and I guess some uncomfy jokes my ace brain found too stupid to actually take seriously? I was too lazy to spellcheck, so let me know if I screwed up lol

Draco stands in the middle of a winding country road lined with trees. Stars wink from the sky, unhindered by smog or street lamps, and night wind shifts like a coiled muscle about to strike. Draco shivers as his dressing gown swirls around his ankles.

“This is a predicament,” Mental Harry remarks. 

Draco jerks around to see Mental Harry observing their surroundings with a crinkle in his brow. His eyes look practically blue instead of their normally vibrant green. 

It’s a trick of the light, Draco supposes. 

The only problem is, light cannot illuminate what is not there. 

“Where am I?” Draco asks numbly, the words falling from his lips like ice.

“Suppose we move off the road?” Mental Harry suggests, gently flicking Draco’s hair out of his eyes. 

“I—,” Draco croaks, only for Mental Harry to snatch his arm and yank him over to the side. One of those Muggle death traps speeds by, and Draco’s heart just momentarily _stops._

“You shouldn’t be able to do that,” Draco says faintly.

“You nearly got run over, and _that’s_ what you’re worried about?” Mental Harry demands.

“My sincere apologies for caring for my mental health,” Draco snaps, whirling around to glare at Mental Harry. “Where _am_ I?” Draco hisses.

Mental Harry raises his hands defensively, and the pale moonlight shifts across the angles of his face.

“How would I know? I’m just an extension of you--if _you_ don’t know, then it’s impossible for me to be any different.”

“I--”

 _I, I, I, I!_ a tiny voice in the back of Draco’s head sneers. _Salazar, how full of yourself_ **_are_ ** _you?_

“Well, don’t just stand there!” Mental Harry shouts. “Get moving! You’ll catch your death of cold.”

The last sentence sounds uncommonly grannyish, but Harry has always been a bit of a grandma.

Draco takes a few hesitant steps. Conceivably, the road must lead to civilization eventually, right? 

The trees creak and practically groan as the weight of the air presses upon their branches.

“Do you hear that?” Draco asks, definitely without any panicky tinge to his voice at all.

“It’s just the wind,” Mental Harry says dismissively. He grins at Draco, his teeth shining with perfect malice in the moonlight. “Scared, Malfoy?”

A _thud_ rings out from the depths of the forest, and Draco stifles a yelp.

“On second thought,” says Harry, “perhaps you should pull out your wand.”

Draco slips his hand into his pocket. He freezes.

He checks his other pocket. He checks his sleeves. He feels along the waistband of his pyjamas.

“We’re dead!” Mental Harry says with cheerful hysteria. “You’re gonna die, and _I’m_ gonna die because I’m just an extension of you, and your bloody doppelganger will marry the real version of me!”

“Shut up!” Draco yells. “I can’t--I can’t _think_ with all your racket!”

Mental Harry pauses before abruptly pulling Draco against his body. Draco’s brain short circuits as Mental Harry tucks his head underneath Draco’s chin.

He can feel the bump of Harry’s nose against his collarbone, the brush of Harry’s hair along his neck and chin, and the heat of Harry’s body through their clothes. 

“Kiss me,” Harry says, his fingers threading through Draco’s hair.

“You’re not real,” Draco says, his voice cracking.

Harry laughs, this wild sound of joy that makes Draco’s throat tighten.

Harry asks, “Your point?” 

Draco stares at Harry a long time before wrenching away, stumbling slightly.

“This is ridiculous,” he snaps.

“Suit yourself,” Mental Harry says with a roll of his eyes.

.

_“Are we fighting?”_

_“About what?” Not Draco asks._

_Harry stands in the kitchen, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. Draco feels his heart sink._

_“You’ve been acting really weird,” Harry says._

_Not Draco’s blink rate shoots up._

_“Is this about sex?” Not Draco asks._

_“No!” Harry cries, his eyes wide with frustration. “You--you keep twitching. You barely look at me in the eye and--okay, fine, it’s about sex. I get it if you want a break, but--”_

_“I can’t deal with this conversation right now,” Not Draco says._

_“Stop this,” Draco pleads. “Please just_ **_stop.”_ **

_Not Draco barely reacts._

_“So we_ **_are_ ** _fighting,” Harry persists._

 _“For Merlin’s sake, Potter,_ **_shut up_ ** _!”_

_Draco’s breath hitches painfully. Harry’s eyes widen, and Not Draco pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut too tight for comfort._

_“I didn’t mean it like that,” Not Draco says_

_“Okay,” Harry says, his breath stuttering. “I--okay.”_

_He starts to turn around, and Not Draco catches his arm._

_“Harry, wait--”_

_Harry barely looks at Not Draco._

_“You called me_ **_Potter_ ** _,” Harry whispers, his voice breaking._

_He tears his arm away from Not Draco’s grasp and flees from the room. Not Draco just watches Harry leave, his hands limp at his side._

.

A muffled scream erupts from Draco’s throat, and he slams his bare palms against a tree.

“You’re very dramatic, you know that?” Mental Harry asks, his fingers curling around the nape of Draco’s neck.

“Please don’t,” Draco whispers.

“Y’know, they say talkin’ to yerself is the first sign,” a deep, gruff voice calls.

Draco’s head darts up, his lungs refusing to accept any air. 

“Hey, Hagrid,” Draco says before blacking out completely.

.

_“Shouldn’t you be snogging your fiance?” Blaise asks._

_Draco chokes on nothing. What in Salazar’s good name is Not Draco doing with Blaise?_

_Not Draco sits at a squalid bar table, his face buried into his arms._

_“Been there, done that,” Not Draco mumbles._

_Blaise snorts, ruffling Not Draco’s limp hair._

_“Trouble in paradise?”_

_“Something like that,” Not Draco says, his voice muffled by his arms._

_“Want to talk about it?” Blaise asks hesitantly._

_“Not particularly.”_

_A flash of hurt flickers in Blaise’s eyes before his face smooths back into his normally impeccable cockiness._

_“Ah, of course,” Blaise drawls, “because I’m a homophobic, blood purist piece of trash.”_

_Draco tenses._

_Not Draco lifts his head, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion._

_“I didn’t say that,” he says blankly._

_“Oh, no,” Blaise says silkily. “You used_ **_much_ ** _more elegant words than that. Don’t worry, darling, I’ll carry them with me forever in my heart, even if I never speak them out loud.”_

_“I didn’t--” Not Draco closes his eyes and massages his temples. “Damn.” He stares at a blank spot above Blaise’s shoulder. “Sometimes I hate myself.”_

_Draco sneers. “The feeling is mutual,” he snarls._

_“Oh, I definitely deserved it,” Blaise says cheerfully. “Not the specific_ **_reasons_ ** _for your ire, per se, but I freely admit I wasn’t the kindest to your Golden Boyfriend.”_

_“Because you’re a homophobe?” Not Draco asks._

_“No! Because—“ Blaise‘s fingers flutter against the table. “Because you wasted six years of my life tormenting Potter, and then you had the nerve to_ **_sleep_ ** _with him. And you didn’t stop! I’ll have you know, I had_ **_plans_ ** _for tormenting your bratty boyfriend. Good ones, too—and all of them legal, which is more than what you can say for Pansy. And you ruined them all!”_

_Not Draco stares at Blaise for a long time, his eyes unreadable._

_“I’m so glad,” Not Draco says dryly, “that you are a complete_ **_tosser_ ** _no matter what the context.”_

 _“Oh, my gods,” Draco says, his voice rising hysterically. “You obnoxious, imbecilic, drugged up_ **_psycho_ ** _! Stop talking! Just stop!”_

_Blaise smirks. It’s not the wild, edgy smile curling up half of his face that Draco remembers. It’s much more hesitant, tentative._

_“I always knew you loved me,” Blaise says._

_He reaches out, his hand brushing against the side of Not Draco’s face. When Not Draco doesn’t pull away, Blaise pulls Not Draco into a hug, his hand stroking the back of Not Draco’s head._

_“Merlin, you’re skinny,” Blaise whispers. “Have you been eating?”_

_“Food is just a physiological excuse to continue our existence upon this cursed earth.”_

_There is a long, awkward pause._

_“Mate, are you on drugs?” Blaise asks._

_Not Draco starts laughing helplessly._

_._

“—and honestly, Draco, you’re lucky you didn’t catch your death of cold!” Hermione exclaims, her arms crossed.

Mental Harry bounces on the bed next to Draco’s form, grinning at him conspiratorially. 

“I did tell you,” Mental Harry says smugly. 

Draco pushes himself up to a sitting position.

“Where am I?” he asks.

Thankfully, Hermione is nowhere near as obnoxious as Mental Harry and answers promptly:

“Oh, Hagrid found you wandering around the Forbidden Forest, yelling at the trees. He brought you back on his motorcycle.” She hesitates. “Do you . . . Do you remember what you were doing there?”

Draco closes his eyes and leans back against his pillow.

“You were mushroom-hunting!” Mental Harry suggests brightly.

“I was _mushroom-hunting?”_ Draco shrieks indignantly, his eyes flying open.

Hermione does not look impressed. “You were hunting for mushrooms at _midnight,”_ she says acerbically. “Ah, yes, the prime time for seeking out mushrooms. Cos everyone knows they hide during the daytime.”

“The magical ones do,” Mental Harry says with a wink.

“They do _not!”_ Draco yells.

“Glad we agree on something,” Hermione says briskly.

“I wasn’t--” Draco shuts his eyes tightly again. He cannot deal with this. He physically, psychologically, and spiritually just _cannot._ “Whatever. Listen, G--Hermione. I needed fresh air.”

“So you went to the Forbidden Forest, the prime spot for midnight jaunts and casual walks.”

“I wasn’t _planning_ on going to the Forest,” Draco says weakly. “It just . . . appeared?”

Mental Harry smacked Draco’s arm.

“Are you _trying_ to convince her you’re psycho?” he demands. “ _It just appeared._ Lame, Draco. Ron and I came up with better excuses when we were first years, and Ron and I were idiots.”

 _Well, I don’t see you coming up with any genius ideas right now,_ Draco thinks as nastily as possible.

Hermione sighs, her head falling slightly.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asks.

“I don’t need a baby-sitter,” Draco says.

Mental Harry smacks him again.

“You’re supposed to be in love!” Mental Harry yells. “At least _act_ like it.”

Draco groans dramatically, stretching out on the bed. Cotton sheets, his brain notes. _Cotton._ Like some kind of Muggle peasant.

“I am madly in love with you,” Draco professes. “Love, oh, love, oh, burning passion in my breast! Kisses and hugs galore. But I’m tired, and alas, I cannot consummate my overwhelming adoration tonight. Sleep beckons. Good night, Hermione.”

He misses his silk sheets.

Hermione pauses, one eyebrow cocked.

“Oooookay, Draco,” she says. “Pleasant dreams.”

She starts to walk out of the room when a loud, obnoxious honking strains through the air.

Draco stifles a scream and throws his covers off. Marching out of bed and over to the door, he flings it open.

“I AM HAVING A MOMENT, YOU PATHETIC MUGGLES!” he screams.

“Did you hear that, Pansy?” Blaise cries from inside a Muggle deathtrap, looking absolutely delighted. “Our disguise is _working!”_

Pansy cheers.

Draco stares blankly. Pansy and Blaise are currently sitting inside a bright red convertible. They wear sharp suits with sparkly rainbow ties.

“Get in, loser!” Pansy yells. “We’re going shopping!”

“You’ve finally lost it,” Mental Harry remarks.

“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” Hermione snaps, from behind Draco. “No one is going shopping.”

“Boo, you whore,” Blaise sneers.

Draco waits for Hermione to hex Blaise into oblivion. Surprisingly, she starts to laugh. It’s a hysterical laugh that only sleep-deprived people can manage, but a laugh nevertheless.

“Can you imagine,” she giggles, “Draco _still_ hasn’t seen _Mean Girls?”_

Blaise and Pansy boo.

“I don’t--I--what is _happening?”_ Draco cries. “You--you’re supposed to be in France right now! And you don’t even know how to drive, and--”

Blaise lays on the horn, and Draco flinches, taking a wobbly step back. Hermione’s and Mental Harry’s hands catch his back.

“No one cares about your boring hallucinations!” he yells. “Get in! The night is young, and so are we!”

“IT IS THREE IN THE MORNING! I AM IN MY PYJAMAS!”

Pansy gives him an approving lookover.

“Very nice ones, at that,” she says sweetly. “Hermione, did you buy those for him?”

“I’m going to bed,” Draco snaps, turning to go back to his room. Not Draco’s room. Whatever. 

In a flash, Blaise and Pansy hop out of the car and run over to Draco, grabbing him by his arms.

“We’ll have him home by dawn,” Pansy calls cheerfully as they drag him over to the car.

Draco expects Hermione to stop them. Or hex them. Or something, _anything,_ other than waving cheerfully.

“Have fun!” she chirps.

“We could kill her,” Mental Harry suggests. “No one would suspect you _at all.”_

“But I’m a nutcase,” Draco wails.

Blaise and Pansy both peck Draco on his cheeks.

“We know, sweetie,” Pansy says.

Blaise adds, “It’s part of your charm.”

.

They end up in an ice cream parlor. Apparently, some places are still open at these magic-forsaken hours.

“This isn’t shopping,” grumbles Draco. “This is torture via ice cream.”

“Shut up, Draco,” Pansy says calmly.

Blaise shoves a spoonful of ice cream into Draco’s mouth.

“Charming, aren’t they?” Not Draco asks dryly.

Draco avoids looking at Not Draco. He can feel Not Draco’s elbow bumping against his.

Not Draco reaches over and takes a spoonful of ice cream. Draco stares at the visible dent in the scoop of ice cream, then up at Blaise and Pansy, hoping one of them notices the mysterious spoon mark.

Blaise pulls the spoon out of Draco’s mouth and scrapes another bite before shoving it into Draco’s mouth.

Draco slaps Blaise’s hand away.

“I can feed myself, thank you very much,” he snaps.

His eyes drift back down to his bowl of ice cream. There are only two dents in the entire scoop.

Draco spins the bowl around. Still only two dents.

“Well, it’s not as if he’s _there,”_ Mental Harry says. “Use your head, dearie.”

Draco shrinks back into the booth, his breath failing once again.

“I don’t--”

“The thing is,” Not Draco remarks, licking his spoon, “nothing about this makes sense. You know that, right? I mean, _I’m_ here, for one.” He takes another bite. “And don’t get me started on Blaise and Pansy. Why on earth would they just show up to your place in the middle of the night--er, morning--and take you to an ice cream parlor?”

“Draco, if you don’t eat it, it’s going to melt,” Pansy complains. “Do you think we paid good Muggle tree slips for you to waste it?”

“You’re so ungrateful,” Blaise says, knocking his foot against Draco’s ankle.

“What if the ice cream isn’t even real?” Mental Harry wonders. “I mean, you’re already off your rocker. What if _none of this_ is real?”

“He’s got a point,” Not Draco says. “I mean . . . come on. You’ve met me. Do I really seem like the type to eat my ice cream like this?”

He licks his spoon in a manner similar to Harry’s appalling habits.

“Draco?” Pansy whispers, her hand touching Draco’s arm. “You okay?”

Draco jerks away, his eyes wide. Pansy’s face flickers before his eyes.

“This ice cream parlor,” Draco says unsteadily. “How did we get here? I don’t--I can’t remember--we were at my house. We hadn’t even _left_ yet--”

_Fire crackles in the hearth, sparks spitting from the fireplace._

Draco finds himself standing, staring Blaise and Pansy down.

“You’re _supposed to be in France,”_ Draco cries, his voice rising hysterically.

Blaise clasps Draco’s shoulder, and Draco steps back rapidly.

“You didn’t stand up,” Draco says. “You were _just_ sitting.”

_A large black dog growls at Draco._

_“Easy, Fang,”_ _Hagrid rumbles._

“A one!” Mental Harry says cheerfully. “A two! A one, two, three!”

And everything just . . . stops.

No ice cream parlor. No Not Draco. No Pansy or Blaise, either.

“Yer awake,” Hagrid says with surprise. “I thought you’d sleep for days with the way you snored.”

Draco sits up, his head spinning. He’s on a cot in a cottage. Fang licks Draco’s face, and Draco shoves him away. At least, he tries. Fang barely budges.

“Gonna need some better muscles than that if yer tryin’ ter get rid of Fang,” Hagrid says.

“Where’s Hermione?” Draco asks fuzzily.

“On her way. Gave her a right scare, you did.”

“That’s what Yoda said, too,” Mental Harry says, nudging Draco’s knee with a sly smile.

“Am I sick?” Draco asks. “Am I _dying?”_

Hagrid roars with laughter. He goes off, presumably to fetch some tea, still laughing at Draco. Draco hears a few mumbled words here and there, something about _Buckbeak_ and _ninny_ and _never changes._

“I think he’s mocking you,” Mental Harry whispers.

“I don’t feel sick,” Draco says faintly.

“Cos yer not!” Hagrid yells. “Now go back ter bed, you ferret!”

Draco sighs heavily and lies back down.

Mental Harry starts to sing.

_“Twinkle twinkle, little star--”_

“Shut _up,”_ Draco hisses.

“No need ter be rude,” Hagrid, says, hurt coloring his voice.

Draco groans and rolls over, thumping his pillow.

_“--how I wonder what you are--”_

“I’m crazy,” Draco says miserably.

“Big surprise,” Hagrid says.

.

“--don’t know why you’re still trying to read that trash,” Hermione says. “It’s completely hypothetical without _any_ possible proof available.”

Draco stares at Hermione, then down at the book in his hands.

“One. Day. Later,” Mental Harry says in a weirdly distorted voice.

“I’m a man of many interests, Hermione,” says Draco. “Hence your burning love for me?”

“I know you are,” says Hermione. “I just thought you preferred _real_ Magickal Science.”

“I’m trying to fit in with the lesser mortals who keep trailing behind you,” Draco says airily.

Hermione just laughs and returns to her book.

Mental Harry leans over and taps Draco’s book with an innocent smile.

“Don’t even think about it,” Not Draco hisses into Draco’s ear.

Draco jumps.

“You okay?” Hermione asks.

“Just--I’m fine, gorgeous siren person, you,” Draco says weakly. 

How to Compliment a Woman While Having a Mental Breakdown, an essay by Draco Malfoy.

Mental Harry falls over laughing, and Not Draco gives Draco a dirty look. Hermione just rolls her eyes.

Draco returns his attention to his book. Not Draco’s hand covers the page.

 _“Don’t,”_ he orders.

“Knock it off,” Mental Harry snaps, flicking Not Draco’s hand away.

“Draco, I _mean it--”_

“Don’t listen to him, Draco. He’s like you, except worse--”

“He’s not even real!” Not Draco shouts, frustration bleeding into his voice.

“Well, he’s not even sane!” Mental Harry retorts.

Draco looks at Mental Harry incredulously. At this point, Draco doesn’t even know if _he_ is sane.

Not Draco attempts to yank the book away, but his hands phase through. Draco shifts the book so it’s out of Not Draco’s reach.

_In the event of two alternate personalities shifting between worlds, the only way to restore each version’s alternative timeline is by death._

“What the _hell?”_ Draco blurts out.

“I told you it was trash,” Hermione says without looking up from her book.

Not Draco’s hands wrap around Draco’s wrist. For a moment, they feel warm and _real._

“We’ll figure it out, Draco,” Not Draco says. “I _promise_ you, but please, that’s _not--”_

“Desperate times, hey?” Mental Harry says.

“Shut up, you idiotic hallucination!” Not Draco yells.

_Upon the death of both personalities, the timelines will crossover and revert to normalcy, placing both entities back in their universe of origin._

“Don’t. Please . . .”

Not Draco fades away, leaving only Mental Harry behind. Mental Harry grins at Draco.

“I guess you were right,” he says. “Everyone _does_ leave.”

Mental Harry disappears, too, leaving Draco feeling as if he got punched in the gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D I would apologize, but I don’t like lying. Leave a comment or come scream at me on tumblr! ladyedwina.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the bottom note for trigger warnings. Take care of yourselves, my friends. This chapter is a little emotionally intense, so if you need to duck out, I completely understand.

“--unusual results,” the Healer comments.

Draco starts, his hands twitching.

He’s in a Healer’s office, and Hermione is nowhere to be found.

“What unusual results?” Draco asks, praying that the Healer isn’t about to lock him up.

The Healer pauses, her eyes flickering to the door, probably praying a few things herself. Draco doubts that she wanted to be the one to examine him. From what he’s seen of Not Draco, he bets that the Healers all shudder at the thought of treating him.

Also, they have to deal with Hermione, which is somehow even worse than the wrath of a former Death Eater.

“We cast Legilimency as you requested, Mr. Malfoy,” the Healer says. “And . . .”

“They think you’re a raving lunatic,” Mental Harry says cheerfully.

“The results were inconclusive,” the Healer says.

Mental Harry laughs.

“Ms. Granger did mention you were having . . . difficulties with your medication?” the Healer asks, discomfort scribbled all over her face. “And that’s certainly . . . believable.”

Draco’s throat tightens.

“We’ll make a new prescription for you,” says the Healer. “Hopefully, this one works better.”

“Fantastic,” Draco snaps, unable to keep the sneer out of his voice.

The Healer flinches noticeably, and Mental Harry’s hand tightens around Draco’s wrist.

“Temper,” he says. “Wouldn’t want anyone to think the big, bad Death Eater is gonna eat them whole.”

Draco plasters the Malfoy Smile on his face and shakes the Healer’s hand. He pretends not to notice the revulsion in her eyes when his sleeve rides up, revealing the barest hint of his Mark.

.

He takes the new potion when he gets back while Mental Harry smiles at him from his perch on top of the counter.

“You will let me know if this one gives you any side effects, right?” Hermione asks anxiously.

“Of course,” Draco says with a smile that is far too easy to fake.

“Merlin, you’re hot when you lie,” Mental Harry says.

.

“Found it!” Hermione says triumphantly, holding a gleaming little circle up to the light. 

Draco looks up from his book. 

Mental Harry leans over Draco’s shoulders, his fingers resting in his hair.

“O Happy Union,” he murmurs.

Draco flinches away from the brush of Mental Harry’s lips against his ear.

“Great,” he says with zero enthusiasm.

Mental Harry elbows him sharply, and Draco winces.

“I mean, _great_!” Draco says, sticking out his hand.

Hermione gives Draco a weird look before sliding the ring onto his finger.

“Here comes the bride,” Mental Harry sings. 

“I hate you,” Draco hisses.

Hermione’s eyes flicker with shock, and Draco blanches, covering his mouth.

“I wasn’t--Merlin. I didn’t mean you--I--I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to myself. Yes.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I hate myself.”

Hermione laughs dryly. “Well, aren’t you comforting,” she says.

“No, really,” Draco says earnestly. “I absolutely despise myself.”

Mental Harry nudges Draco’s arms gently, whispering, “Take her hands.”

Draco holds Hermione’s hands like they’re two people in some maiden drama and are about to get eaten or brutally murdered.

“Do the eye thing,” Mental Harry suggests. “I always love it when you do the eye thing.”

The eye thing. _The eye thing._ What in Merlin’s name is the _eye thing?_

“Well, don’t blame me,” huffs Harry. “I’m _you._ Your subconscious is the one who comes up with all this.”

“This is why I hate myself,” Draco snaps.

Hermione’s eyebrows fly up.

“I don’t quite understand the context of that statement,” she says.

“Look as if you’re gazing into the face of death,” Mental Harry says. “And you find that face incredibly sexy. You just want to grab Death by his swirling silk lapels and slam him against a wall while stabbing each other, but homoerotic stabbing.”

A strangled whine rises up Draco’s throat, and he glares at Hermione.

Mental Harry sighs, his hand pressed against the small of Draco’s back.

“Concentrate,” Mental Harry orders.

Then Hermione’s face just . . . shifts. Draco stares at her with horror.

“You’re welcome,” Mental Harry says. “Now for the love of wizardry, kiss her already!”

She looks like Harry.

“You okay?” Hermione asks.

She _sounds_ like Harry.

“I really am a terrible person,” Draco says faintly.

His hands shaking, he slowly places his palm against the curve of her cheek. Draco’s breath catches in his throat. It’s been so long since he touched Harry, since Harry looked at him with something other than indifference--

Draco forces his mind to put the brakes on. This isn’t Harry, and no matter how desperate he is for Harry’s touch and smile, Draco can’t--

“Shut up,” Harry says, grabbing Draco by his shirt and slamming his lips against Draco’s mouth.

This is a bad idea.

But frankly, Draco is beyond the point of caring.

.

Draco wakes up in a tangle of cotton sheets, completely naked. Hermione lies next to him, her bushy hair practically in his mouth.

Draco leaps out of bed, a strangled scream in his throat, his hands shaking.

“Initiating, self-loathing,” Mental Harry says from the corner of the room.

“You-- _you--!”_

“Please calm down,” Mental Harry says. “You’ll wake Hermione up.”

“You made me cheat on you!” Draco snarls.

“Draco, love, please, for the love of Godric, _please_ use your head,” Mental Harry says, grasping Draco by the wrists and pulling him into a chair. _“I_ am literally _you._ I made you do _nothing.”_

Draco buries his face into his palms, his chest tightening painfully. No matter how much he breathes, it feels like he’s suffocating. With every new gasp of air, his throat and chest hurt worse.

Mental Harry hugs Draco, smoothing back his hair.

“I can’t--I can’t--I _can’t--”_

“Draco,” Mental Harry says softly, cupping Draco’s chin. “You’re _fine.”_

“I slept with Hermione fricking Granger,” Draco cries. “Nothing about this situation is fine! I--I’m just like _him.”_

His voice chokes on the last word as he remembers the stark paleness of Not Draco’s face as he stared up at Harry.

Mental Harry says thoughtfully, “Well, the two cases aren’t quite the same. After all, the other you never . . . um. Finished it?”

Draco’s fingers dig into his thighs. Mental Harry gently pries his hands back up.

“In your defense, you were totally hallucinating.”

“Oh, thanks!” Draco snaps. 

Mental Harry shrugs helplessly, rubbing his forehead.

“I can’t have this conversation with you when you’re naked,” he says. “I’m gonna . . . go downstairs and wait for you to make tea.”

Mental Harry fades away.

.

Draco stares blankly at his mug of tea.

“How . . .”

“You got dressed,” Mental Harry says patiently. “You came downstairs, and you brewed tea.”

“Right,” Draco says, his voice shaking.

He tightens his grip around the mug to hide the shiver in his hands.

“You could tell Hermione,” Mental Harry suggests.

“What good would that do?” Draco snaps. “We’ll just go back to the Healers, and they’ll hook me up with a new drug. It’s a waste of time.”

Mental Harry gives Draco a significant look, and Draco can feel the flush darkening his cheeks. What he would give to have darker skin like Harry or Hermione . . .

“I wasn’t on medication,” Draco says sharply.

“Antidepressants,” Mental Harry says serenely.

“That doesn’t count _.”_

Mental Harry’s eyes darken, and he looks at Draco with this cold, tightlipped expression.

“I changed my mind,” he says. “It’s not sexy when you lie to yourself _at all.”_

Draco slumps into his arms on the table. He feels the ghost of Mental Harry’s fingers combing through his hair.

Footsteps tap along the wooden floor, but Draco doesn’t look up.

Hermione hugs him from behind.

“You made tea?” she asks, a much brighter note in her voice than usual.

“That’s me,” Draco says. “Model fiancé.”

Hermione laughs and hugs him even more tightly.

.

Snape sits next to him in the living room. Draco bolts to his feet, his eyes wide.

“What--”

Snape’s lips curl up into a sneer.

“Such incompetence, Draco,” he says. “How many times are you going to return to this Healer?”

Blood trickles down his neck into a spreading stain on his robes. Draco backs away.

“I don’t--”

“You’ll lose everything if this continues,” Snape hisses, his eyes narrowed.

“He should know,” Mental Harry says. “Believe me, I was there.”

Draco stumbles outside of the house. Snow falls onto his face, clumping in his eyelashes and soaking his slippers.

Snape places his hand on Draco’s shoulder.

“I can’t deal with this right now,” Draco says, his voice so embarrassingly close to shattering.

“With what, idiot child?” Snape asks.

“With _you,”_ Draco chokes out.

Snape’s eyebrow raises. His face implacable, he brushes past Draco into the snow. A trail of red splatters onto the pristine white canvas. 

Draco blinks.

There is no snow. Autumn leaves litter every surface, and the sun glares at him from an ice blue sky.

Mental Harry’s head rests against the hollow of Draco’s neck, and Draco is dimly aware of his hand tangled in Mental Harry’s hair.

“If I get back,” Draco asks unsteadily, “will you still love me?”

Mental Harry hesitates.

“Context, please,” he requests.

“I told you,” says Draco. “I’m _just like him._ I don’t even know what’s _real_ anymore--”

Mental Harry’s hands frame Draco’s face.

“I’m unable to answer that question,” he says with a sickening look of adoration. “I’m just you, except with a prettier face. Any answer I give you would ultimately just be you talking to yourself.”

He lightly presses a kiss against Draco’s lips, then goes back inside.

Wonderful. Not even Draco’s own hallucination wants to encourage him.

And Harry is _not_ prettier than Draco.

“I am literally in your head, Draco!” Mental Harry yells. “You can’t lie to me.”

.

_“I can’t do this anymore.”_

_“Draco, please--”_

_Not Draco shakes Harry’s hand off his arm and returns to methodically packing. Draco’s stomach begins to pool with dread._

_“You don’t understand,” Not Draco says sharply._

_“I’m_ **_trying_ ** _to,” Harry says pleadingly. “Can we talk about this?”_

_“This is the talking!” Not Draco explodes, whirling around to face Harry. “This is the understanding. I. Don’t. Love. You.”_

_“Please just stop this,” Draco begs. “Please, we can fix this; we can get back--”_

_Harry tries to speak: “Draco, I don’t--”_

_“You can’t do this to him. You can’t do this to me; please, just_ **_stop--”_ **

_“If this is something I did, I swear to you, I’ll fix it; just_ **_tell me,_ ** _and--”_

_“We had a deal!” Draco shouts. “We had a fricking plan, and you’re just **throwing** it away--” _

_“SHUT UP!” Not Draco yells._

_Harry stills, his eyes painfully wide. Draco can see every shadow in his eyes, the dark blue line circling the green, and the pale flecks of gold in between iris and pupil._

_“I’m done,” Not Draco says, his face crumpling._

.

Draco bolts up from his bed, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

“Well, eff me gently with a chainsaw,” Mental Harry says.

Draco’s sheets bunch up under his hands. He hates this. He hates the scratchy cotton threads that rub against his fingers, he hates the odd way the sheets drape against his form, and he hates (hates, hates, _hates)_ the way Hermione’s hair is _everywhere._

“He’s ruining my life,” Draco says, his voice strangled. “Merlin’s rotting corpse, he’s destroying _everything.”_

Mental Harry pushes Draco’s hair out of his face.

“Breathe,” he says.

Draco’s voice cracks as he says, “I hate this.”

Mental Harry grabs Draco’s hands and tugs him toward the door.

“Tea,” he says.

“It’s midnight,” Draco protests.

“Every time is tea time,” Mental Harry says dismissively.

Draco lets Mental Harry lead him to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on while Mental Harry kicks out a rhythm onto the chair legs.

“Please don’t do that,” Draco says.

“I’m not real,” Mental Harry says pleasantly, kicking the chair legs even harder. “I can do what I want.”

Draco closes his eyes, inhaling deeply as he snatches a mug off the shelf.

“There’s only one option left, you know,” Mental Harry says.

Draco’s fingers freeze.

“I . . . I promised I wouldn’t,” he says tightly.

“Yeah, clearly, you and your other self are _so_ good at keeping your promises,” Mental Harry says. “Desperate times, desperate measures, as those sage Internet prophets say.”

“I’m not killing myself,” Draco says shakily.

“It’s not suicide,” Mental Harry says patiently. “It’s just . . . fixing things. I mean, in a slightly painful, distressing way, but it’s still fixing things.”

“There has to be another way,” Draco says numbly.

The moonlight slants across Mental Harry’s face, illuminating every pained angle of his expression.

“You’ve read all the books, love,” he reminds Draco. “You _know_ that was the only method available.”

“That’s not--that can’t be the way I get back,” Draco says, his voice painfully high. “I _promised_ you that I would never--”

His voice breaks off, and he avoids Harry’s eyes.

“Yes,” Harry says hesitantly. “Well, the circumstances are a bit different this time, aren’t they?”

Draco can’t make his hands lie still. His heart feels as if God is reaching down and trapping it in his fist.

“I can’t--I don’t think this is a good idea,” Draco says, his voice breaking.

Harry leans forward and strokes Draco’s hair.

“Think about it this way,” Harry says gently. “Do you _really_ want to live in a world where I don’t love you? Here, I barely tolerate you. Oh, sure, I might laugh at your jokes or shake your hand when I meet Hermione for lunch, but if you died tomorrow--if you died _tonight--_ I wouldn’t even notice.”

Draco flinches.

“That’s a horrible thing to say,” he says, the words wobbling as they fall off his tongue.

Harry squeezes Draco’s hands.

“I promised you that I would never lie,” he says earnestly.

 **_I must not tell lies_ ** _flashed up from Harry’s hand, and Draco kissed it gently._

_“It’s hideous,” Harry said, his face tight with unreadable emotion._

_“It’s a part of you,” Draco said, “and every part of you is lovely.”_

Draco’s eyes begin to sting.

“I don’t--I don’t want to, though,” Draco says. “It _hurt_ last time.”

Harry traces the side of Draco’s face.

“Do you love me?” Harry asks.

“Of course I do, but--”

“Do you trust me?”

Draco’s breath hitches painfully, and he meets Harry’s eyes. Harry has never looked more earnest, more _concerned._

Draco isn’t crying. He’s not, honestly, because everything is _fine,_ and he knows that Harry wants what’s best. He knows that Harry is right about almost everything, but it’s _so hard_ to remember that.

“Okay,” Draco says, his voice whisper-thin. “I--you promise it won’t hurt?”

Harry’s face breaks out into a huge grin, and he kisses Draco’s forehead.

“Cross my heart,” he breathes into Draco’s skin.

Draco inhales a quivering breathe, rubbing his eyes.

“Okay,” Draco says again, his voice breaking for what feels like the one hundredth time.

Harry leads him to the medicine chest and flips the lid open.

“It won’t hurt a bit,” Harry says, then smiles sympathetically. “I know how you hate pain.”

He presses a few bottles into Draco’s palms.

“Three should do the trick,” Harry says.

Draco stares down at the potions vials. They are so small, so seemingly harmless. But he can readily testify to their potency.

Harry kisses Draco one last time, his fingers slipping through Draco’s hair and brushing it out of Draco’s face.

“You can do this,” Harry says. “You are so much braver than you give yourself credit for.”

Draco swallows heavily, then unscrews the first bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: hallucinations, cheating, dubcon, suicidal ideation, and a heavily implied suicide attempt
> 
> I—I’m so sorry, guys. I genuinely am. :( I promise you, it will get better. Notice the nine chapter endmark? I’ve got a plan, and I swear death is not the ending.
> 
> But on a plus side, there were tons of Broadway references! Lmk if you caught any!
> 
> As always, feed the raging beast inside me with comments.
> 
> EDIT: I can’t believe I forgot to say this earlier, but I just want you all to know that this is in no way glorifying or romanticizing suicide/depression. Mental Harry is screwed up and the whole “you’re brave for doing this” is a load of trash.
> 
> Listen, guys, I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to not want to live and to hate yourself because you think you’re a coward for not being able to kill yourself. This is false. You are brave for choosing to go on. You are brave for every day, every minute, EVERY SECOND that you choose life, no matter how much it hurts.
> 
> Sadly, this sentiment is poorly understood by many people. Too many times have I read people saying that they hated themselves but were too chicken to commit suicide. THIS IS FALSE. 
> 
> You are brave, beautiful, and worthy. No matter what things you have done, no matter what has happened to you in the past, YOU DESERVE TO LIVE.
> 
> I beg of you to seek someone out to talk to about this—whether professional or otherwise. You are not alone.
> 
> I love all of you. Stay safe.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that this is so late! I had a lot going on, and my mental health was not the best. Fair warning, there is some language at the end of this chapter so uh be careful if that triggers you ig????

Draco drowns in a sea of white. Whispered footsteps cross his paths, and he hears the shuffling of lowered voices. It’s hazy, though, as if obscured through a sheet of gauze. 

Hermione is furious, on the verge of tears. He hears it in the high, high pitch of her words as she slices the Healer to shreds. 

She leaves, and Draco continues to drift. 

.

_ “I’m sorry,” Draco says, his voice painfully thin.  _

_ Harry just looks tired.  _

_ “This isn’t your fault.” _

_ “But it  _ **_is._ ** _ I—“ _

_ “You were desperate,” Harry says quietly. “I’m not saying you made the right choice, but—“ Harry sits next to Draco, his eyes distant. “I know a thing or two about doing stupid things because of desperation.” _

_ “I’m sorry,” Draco says again, his voice hiccuping on the last syllable.  _

_ “You don’t have to apologize,” Harry says.  _

_ “I didn’t ask for any of this, I swear; I didn’t  _ **_know—“_ **

_ “I know,” Harry whispers. He hesitantly gathers Draco in his arms, and Draco practically curls into Harry’s touch. “We’ll fix this, okay? This isn’t the end.” _

_ “You’re so bloody  _ **_positive,”_ ** _ Draco says. _

_ “Part of my charm,” says Harry, his eyes closing. _

.

“--and I  _ swear, _ I am going to have that Healer’s license on a platter--”

“Don’t be such an arse, Hermione. The woman was trying her best.”

_ “Trying her best-- _ Merlin’s beard, Ron, do you hear yourself?”

They’re whispering, practically spitting, and Draco so very much does not want to open his eyes.

It didn’t work.

It didn’t  _ work, _ and now Hermione probably thinks he’s suicidal, and he’s  _ so cold, _ and Harry--Mental Harry, that is--is nowhere to be found.

_ “Three should do the trick.” _

Draco reflects bitterly on his complete inability to do  _ anything _ right.

_ The slide of the potions down Draco’s throat, the tremors that began in his hands before spreading throughout his whole system, the panicky feeling of being trapped in his own body-- _

_ Mental Harry held Draco in his lap, stroking back his hair and whispering, “It’s okay; it’s okay. You’ll be better soon. You’ll be back where you belong. I promise you.” _

“She shouldn’t be in charge of magical psychosis patients if she can’t tell the difference between a hallucination and reality!”

Draco’s breath catches. Luckily, neither Hermione nor Ron seem to notice.

Hallucination and reality.

Does Hermione know? Did she figure it out? She has always been the smart one . . .

_ “The brightest witch of your year,” Father said coldly, his eyes burning into Draco’s skin. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that is? A Malfoy heir does  _ **_not_ ** _ experience defeat at the hands of a  _ **_mudblood.”_ **

Draco flinches involuntarily. In an instant, the conversation trails off.

“Draco,” Hermione says, the relief in her voice hidden behind her usual dry tone. “You’re awake.”

Rather reluctantly, Draco opens his eyes. The colors swirl before him, merging into this bright white mess, and Draco can barely keep his eyes open.

“How do you feel?” Hermione asks.

Draco squints up at her.

“Shite,” Draco says roughly.

Behind Hermione sprawls a lanky, reddish-orange blob on a chair. 

“Gave us a scare, mate,” Weasley says.

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger waiting at Draco’s bedside for him to wake up--the world really has gone mad.

Through half-open eyes, Draco watches the blob trundle off to find the Healer. 

Draco tries to sit up, but he can barely arch his back. With a soft thump, his head falls back against the flat, bumpy pillow.

“Am I high?” Draco asks blearily. 

“Detoxing,” the Healer says crisply, striding into the room with Weasley at his heels. “That was  _ quite _ the collection of potions.”

The Healer meets Hermione’s eyes. He barely opens his mouth before Hermione says in a cold, harsh voice,  _ “No.” _

“You don’t even know what—“

“You lot have done quite enough,” Hermione snaps. 

“Ms. Granger—“

“She cast Legilimins on him,” Hermione hisses. “She  _ saw it all in his head, _ and she somehow didn’t notice the  _ clear _ magical distortion. You expect me to trust  _ any _ of your staff ever again?”

The Healer’s face has gone incredibly pale. He shimmers before Draco’s eyes, and Draco has to blink hard twice before his sight returns to normal. 

“There are mistakes,” Hermione says steadily, “and then there’s malpractice. Believe me, I  _ will _ petition for an inquiry.”

“And she’ll get one, too,” Weasley pipes up. 

“We’ll be going now,” Hermione says abruptly.

The Healer hesitates. 

“I—he’s not strong enough yet—“

“I think we’ll be able to handle it,” Hermione interrupts. 

“Paperwork, please,” Weasley says with a Cheshire cat grin. 

It’s getting more and more difficult to keep Draco’s eyes open. 

After the Healer scuttles off, Hermione turns back to Draco. 

“We need to talk,” she says softly. “Not now. But Draco… we know. And we believe you.”

All his breath is trapped within. 

.

_ “What if this doesn’t work out?” Draco asks. “What if I just screw everything up again?” _

_ “You’re overthinking this,” Harry says.  _

_ “You’re not thinking enough,” Draco retorts. _

.

Draco wakes up back in Hermione and Not Draco’s bedroom. Cotton sheets, silk pyjamas, and Mental Harry pressing up against Draco’s side.

_ “Draco,” _ Mental Harry says, and  _ oh, _ the disappointment in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispers. “I think--I think something went wrong. I don’t know what happened, but I--”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mental Harry hisses. “You won’t get another chance like this ever again. They will watch you like a  _ hawk, _ Draco.”

“Hermione said that she believed me,” Draco says. “Maybe she’ll figure out a different way--”

Mental Harry demands, “Believed  _ what? _ You have zero context for that. She probably thinks you’re barking mad--”

Draco’s eyes begin to sting.

“You’re not real,” Draco says, his voice cracking. “Harry would--Harry would  _ never  _ had told me--”

Footsteps patter outside Draco’s door, and he jerks upright.

He stumbles out of bed, shoving away his sheets.

“Hermione,” he calls roughly. “Hermione, I--”

The door swings open, and Hermione pokes her head in.

Draco opens his mouth, then hesitates, his mind racing. What does he even say? He can’t even force the words out of his mouth.

Hermione sits down next to Draco, clearly remaining cautious when she gets close to him, as if he is some skittish animal prone to flight.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione says, and then her eyes fill with tears.

.

In the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea, Draco listens to Hermione ramble about the past few days.

“--and I swear to God, that ward ought to be sued--”

“I don’t--I don’t understand,” Draco says, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes. “Could you explain it again? I thought you said that Legilimency wouldn’t work because it couldn’t distinguish reality from delusions.”

Hermione promptly answers:

“It doesn’t. But what it  _ can _ do is reveal unusual magical activity, and there was something . . . off. The Healer should have noticed.” For a moment, Hermione looks like she’s going to cry again. “I’m sorry. I should have done as you asked. I just--things like this have happened before with him, and--and it always just made it worse when I--”

“Please stop apologizing,” Draco says, burying his face into his arms. “Please just--stop talking. My head hurts.”

Hermione falls silent.

Draco inhales shakily, trying to get his jumbled thoughts in order. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and massages his temples, his hands shaking slightly.

“Did you tell him?” Draco asks, panic bleeding into his voice. “Does--does he know about--”

He cannot handle the thought of Harry looking at him with disgust or discomfort, even in this oddball world where everything is upside down, even though he  _ knows _ that the Harry of his world would never--

_ “I’m  _ **_done,”_ ** _ Not Draco said. _

_ The pain did not relinquish its hold on Harry’s face. _

Hermione looks slightly embarrassed.

“I . . . told Harry that you were from an alternate universe. I didn’t specify what that universe looked like.”

Relief fills Draco’s soul.

“Can you get me back?” Draco asks, his voice thin.

“We’re going to try,” Hermione says gently.

_ We. _

The brush of dusty robes whispers against the floor, and Draco feels his face drain of color. 

“Hullo, Severus,” Hermione says wearily. “Ready to explain how we botched things up?”

.

Severus isn’t dead.  _ Severus isn’t dead. _

Instead of feeling relieved that he hasn’t been hallucinating everything, a tight ball of anger knots inside Draco’s chest.

Severus is talking to him as he and Hermione work on a potion, somehow combining a discussion of variables and magical universe theory with an argument with Hermione about the proper ingredients.

“Did you even pay attention in Potions?” Severus demands. “You clearly have no basic understanding  _ at all--” _

“I did pay attention,” Hermione retorts with a sniff. “And clearly  _ you _ are growing senile in your old age--”

Severus starts muttering under his breath the indignity of there being an alternate universe in which his godson is engaged to  _ Harry Potter, _ and Hermione retorts with a spiel of ingredients Severus  _ should  _ be using as she argues that  _ technically, _ Draco being in a relationship with Harry is no odder than being with her.

“In fact!” Hermione says brightly. “I find it slightly  _ less _ odd.”

Severus mutters a few uncomplimentary words about Hermione’s relationship with his godson.

The anger does not leave Draco’s chest because  _ how dare he? _ How dare Not Draco act all  _ woe is me, _ when Severus is alive--when the only decent father figure Draco has ever had is sitting in Hermione’s kitchen, arguing about potions and Draco’s love life?

Hermione and Severus finish the potion after a brief tussle over the ladle. Apparently, both have Strong Opinions on the proper way to stir. Draco finally understands why Harry hated Potions class so much--it must have been  _ torture  _ with both Hermione and Severus breathing down his neck.

“Drink this,” Severus says curtly, setting a newly topped vial in front of Draco. “It will help with your headache.”

Draco stares at them with an utter lack of comprehension.

“It took you this long,” Draco says, “to make a  _ headache draught? _ Are you kidding me? I thought you were doing something  _ useful, _ not giving me magic aspirin.”

Draco knows what aspirin is now, thanks to Harry. He is quite proud of himself for this.

“Shut up and drink it before you give  _ me  _ a headache,” Severus grumbles.

Clearly, Severus is just trying to express his love. Draco decides to take pity on him and drinks the potion.

“Oh,” Draco says, blinking slowly. “Um. Severus? Is this . . . Is this supposed to make everything like . . .” His tongue struggles to find the right word. “Jelly?”

Hermione fumes. “See, I  _ told _ you that it was only supposed to be three clockwise turns,” she says crossly. “Now he’s going to get all drowsy!”

“He needed sleep anyway,” Severus says dismissively.

“He’s already slept for a week!”

“What’s one day more?”

The kitchen begins to spin.

“I cannot  _ believe _ you,” Hermione snaps. “You’re so insufferable. You didn’t even  _ ask--” _

Draco is partially aware of falling out of his chair, but it seems more like a dream. 

.

“You were dead,” Draco whispers, a thin shiver riding his frame as he stares at the figure sitting across from his bed. “Harry had to  _ watch it happen, _ and you bled out all over him.”

It’s probably a dream. Draco is sure of it due to the redness around Severus’s eyes. Severus was untouchable. Severus  _ never _ cried, especially not in front of other people.

“He washes his hands,” Draco says. “He can’t stop himself from scrubbing, and his hands get chapped and raw. I rubbed an entire bottle of lotion into his skin once, and it did nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” Severus says.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Draco says because  _ screw this.  _ It makes no sense for Severus to be alive in another world when the Harry of Draco’s universe cleans his hands until they bleed because he can’t get the memory of Severus’s blood out of his head. “It’s not  _ fair.” _

Life is unfair, as Draco’s father was so fond of reminding him. The Harry of Not Draco’s world gets a wife and children and apparently semi-okay mental health, apart from the occasional panic attack.

Meanwhile, the Harry of Draco’s world gets . . . him and a boatload of their combined trauma.

“A frequent statement concerning my survival,” Severus says wryly. “I must admit that it surprises me to hear it from you.”

“I just--” Draco shuts his eyes tightly. “Why did you have to die? You could have run. You could have fought. You just  _ let _ it happen.”

“Dragon,” Severus says, his voice at apparent loss. “I’m not dead.”

Draco inhales shakily, looking at Severus. There is no blood trailing from Severus’s neck, no lifeless pall in his skin.

“I hate him,” Draco says miserably. “The other me. I  _ hate  _ him. You’re still alive, and he’s--”

Screwed up. Everything Draco is himself but one hundred times worse with a sprinkling of unreality on the top.

Severus opens his mouth, but a loud series of cracks and pops from outside the door cuts him off. Harry’s terse, Auror-mode voice pierces the air:

“WHERE THE  _ FUCK _ IS MY FIANCE?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gettin spisay rn! Leave a comment or come chat with me on tumblr: ladyedwina.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early gift for all of you.

The door to the bedroom flies open, and Harry storms through, in all his dark and brooding glory.

He’s glaring. Never a good sign, that. Draco blinks up at him, and the sharp angles of Harry’s face smooth into curves.

“Draco,” he says, relief softening his eyes.

“Well, that was easy,” Severus says blandly. “Granger really does work faster than I give her credit for.”

Draco’s head snaps to the side.

“You mean--” Anxiety claws its way up Draco’s throat. “You mean you can see him, too?”

Severus just stares at Draco, then at Harry, then back at Draco. Then, with utmost dignity, he stands up, brushes off his robes, and leaves. Draco is left alone with what may or may not be a hallucination.

(For all he knows, Severus is in on it, too.)

“Draco, it’s me,” Harry says anxiously. “I swear--”

Draco all but launches himself out of the bed, nearly falling face-down on the floor. Harry grabs onto Draco before he falls, and Draco clenches Harry’s robes tightly, burying his face in Harry’s clavicle. 

Draco can’t stop shaking. He’s trying so hard not to cry, but Harry is _there._ Harry is real and holding him and breathing assurances into his hair.

“I’ve got you,” Harry whispers. “I’m here; I’m real; _I’ve got you.”_

Brushing Draco’s hair from his face, Harry gently kisses Draco’s forehead. A part of Draco does not want to move. He wants to keep his face buried in Harry’s collarbone forever where he can breathe in Harry’s scent and keep his breaths in time to Harry’s.

All the same, Draco turns up his face and grabs Harry’s robes, pulling him even closer. Draco kisses Harry, and once Draco starts, it’s like he can’t stop. 

He has been desperate for Harry’s touch for so long. One kiss is like a drop of water to a man trapped in a desert. So Draco takes and takes and takes, and Harry does not stop giving.

It doesn’t make sense. It might not be real. But at this point, Draco cannot bring himself to care.

.

The door swings open once more, and a strangled squeak emits from the doorway.

Naturally, Draco ignores this tedious interruption. For whatever reason, Harry does not share this sentiment. He pulls away from Draco, his hand still firmly pressed up against Draco’s back.

Draco is mortified at the small whine that rises up from his throat.

Not Draco stands awkwardly, his face half-hidden by the shadows of his own making. Hermione stands next to him, practically holding him up.

“You need to rest,” Hermione scolds. “You can explain things later--”

Not Draco shakes his head.

“Now,” he says faintly. “Or I never will.”

Not Draco looks how Draco feels.

Looking supremely disgruntled, Hermione helps Draco over to the chair, where he all but collapses.

“I don’t understand,” Draco says, his brain finally kicking in. “I--how did you get here? I researched, and I couldn’t find . . .” The lines around Hermione’s eyes tighten. “Anything,” Draco finishes lamely. “I couldn’t find anything.”

Not Draco already knows what Draco found, but there’s no need to flaunt it before Harry.

Draco waits impatiently for an explanation. Not Draco’s face is so pale that were he lying on the ground, Draco might have mistaken him for a corpse.

“Reverse spellwork,” Harry says quietly, once it’s clear that Not Draco is not going to answer.

Draco’s face twitches. “But that means--someone did this to us. _Why?_ Was it a curse? A hex? What was the bloody _point?”_

Everyone in the room suddenly avoids Draco’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Not Draco says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t--I swear that I would never have--I didn’t _know--”_

Draco grips Harry’s hand so tightly that a dim part of him points out that he’s probably cutting off Harry’s blood circulation.

“I’m sorry,” Not Draco repeats, then buries his face in his hands. The only hint of movement left in the room is his shaking shoulders.

.

It takes forever to pull the story out of Not Draco. With every passing second, Hermione grows more and more agitated, and Draco can tell that she is this close to telling everyone off for keeping Not Draco awake.

Draco and Harry sit on the bed as the words tumble from Not Draco’s lips, with Draco practically sitting in Harry’s lap and Harry’s chin tucked over Draco’s shoulder.

“--I was just so _tired_ of living this way,” Not Draco says, his eyes drowning in panic. “The medication, the stares, the hallucinations--and I had read a little bit about alternate universes when we were at Hogwarts so--”

It’s clear that both Hermione and Harry have already heard this tale (Hermione no doubt while Harry and Draco were occupied) because their reactions are far more muted than normal.

“--and I didn’t know, I swear to you, that it would end up this way. I just thought I would end up somewhere else, somewhere better, and if I had _known--”_

Not Draco’s voice pitches up on the last word, his face crumpling once more.

Harry rubs soothing circles on Draco’s arm. Draco cannot help noticing that while Hermione is clearly still protective of Not Draco, there’s a tightness in her eyes that was not there before.

All is not forgiven.

“--once I realized, I tried to figure out a way to fix things, to get us both back. And I know I should have told you, but I couldn’t figure out how, and the longer I didn’t say anything--”

Draco closes his eyes, resting his head against Harry’s. Harry’s other hand begins to rub circles into Draco’s thigh.

“--and then you found the book that said--” Not Draco chokes on his own words, and Draco can hear the way Not Draco’s air collapses in his throat. “--and I knew you could become desperate enough, and I tried so hard to tell you then, but I couldn’t force the words past my lips, so I just didn’t. But I--I told Harry later what I did, and I _promise you_ that I was going to tell you, but--”

So many _but’s_ flow from Not Draco’s mouth.

“--and I’m sorry, I didn’t _know_ that you would end up here. If--”

“Please,” Draco says wearily. “Please just shut up.” 

Not Draco abruptly silences, and Draco tries to come up with words to express how he feels. There are none. Perhaps he is too numb. Perhaps he is too tired. But the anger that Draco wants to find, to fuel, to spew in Not Draco’s direction is simply not there.

“I just want to go home,” Draco says, his voice breaking.

Harry presses a kiss against the corner of Draco’s mouth.

“Of course,” he says.

“You brought the spellwork?” Hermione asks, speaking for the first time since Not Draco began his confusing, long-winded confession. Harry pulls out several sheaths of parchment from his robes. “Severus can help you with that.”

Draco and Harry stand, Harry’s arm still looped around Draco’s back.

They start to leave, but Draco catches Hermione’s arm.

“Will you be okay?” Draco asks.

He isn’t talking about her, specifically, and they both know it. Hermione glances back at Not Draco, who looks as if he is about to faint in his chair.

The corner of her mouth quirks up in a wistful smile.

“As a wise man once said, we cannot choose who we love,” she says. “Only what we choose to do with it.”

With that load of bollocks, Draco and Harry exit the room.

.

For the most part, Severus is on his best behavior as he helps Harry cast the spell. But then, Severus’s idea of manners is slightly different from mainstream society’s.

“So I’m dead where you’re from,” he says randomly.

“Um,” says Harry, “yes?”

“I’m sure that was the highlight of your day,” Severus says blandly.

Harry’s blink rate shoots up by about tenfold.

Before they finish, Draco hugs Severus tightly.

“I wish you weren’t dead,” whispers Draco.

“So do I” is Severus’s cheerful response.

With that, Harry and Draco leave this world for good.

.

That night, in bed, Draco tries to tell Harry what happened. It comes out jumbled and confused, and all of a sudden, Draco has sympathy for Not Draco’s misery as he attempted to apologize.

“I didn’t know what was real,” Draco chokes out.

Harry cups Draco’s face in his hands, his fingertips pressed against Draco’s cheekbones.

“This, Draco,” Harry says, pressing a kiss against Draco’s lips. “This is and always will be real.”

And so they sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saltedkiss, you better appreciate me
> 
> I wrote keesses for you
> 
> MY ACEARO ASS WROTE KEESSES. YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO WRITE KEESSES?????????


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wild ride, y'all.... I hope this makes up for all the angst lmao

Draco should have known better. A part of him knew that life would not return to the way everything was before, but he thought it would at least have some semblance of normalcy.

After the sixth night of tumbling out of bed and stumbling away because  _ he doesn’t know if it’s real, _ Harry holds him tightly and whispers, “Maybe we should get some therapy.”

Draco starts to laugh hysterically because there is no way he is ever going to set foot in a Healer’s office ever again. 

Harry finds him a Muggle therapist. It’s awkward because Draco has to avoid talking about a good thirty percent of his life, but he quickly learns how to get around it. The Death Eaters are just a racist cult. His parents are Conservative assholes. Magic is a religion. The alternate universe was some psychotic breakdown due to poorly prescribed medication.

Draco gets put back on antidepressants.

“Maybe you should try some, too,” Draco suggests one time at dinner. “Might make life more bearable as the Savior of the Wizarding World.”

Harry just laughs and kisses Draco over the table.

Harry is friends with Hermione and Weasley again. Apparently, Not Draco did a little bit of good--he was right about Harry needing to reconcile with his friends. It turns out that they were all just waiting for the other one to take the first step and apologize. As it happens, the only reason Harry and Not Draco were able to make it back was because Hermione helped them figure out the right spell.

Hermione helps Draco get his accounts unfrozen, which helps Draco feel a whole lot less awkward whenever he sees her. Money might not solve every problem, but Draco finds it makes life a little less dreadful.

Draco meets with the Muggle therapist twice a week. She keeps suggesting that he be honest with Harry, but he has no idea how to tell Harry about half the things that happened.

“He’ll be patient with you,” she assures Draco.

That’s honestly the main reason Draco hates her. For the most part, she’s rather intelligent, but she has one failing: she actually  _ believes _ in people.

“Bold of you to assume I’ll be patient with myself,” Draco sneers.

She just offers her clinically distant smile.

Draco tracks Blaise and Pansy down in France. Pansy seems a little standoffish, but Blaise practically launches himself at Draco.

“You idiot!” Blaise snarls. “I thought you forgot us!”

“I  _ knew  _ he forgot us,” Pansy says with a haughty sniff, examining her perfect manicure.

Draco doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry over the many miscommunications because  _ Merlin. _ He thought  _ they _ were the ones who forgot  _ him. _

Harry likes to act all smug and superior about his optimistic, Light Magic drivel about love defeating all evil, but Draco can ignore him just as easily as he ignores his therapist.

It takes a long time for Draco to tell Harry about his time in the other world. Half of the time, Draco can tell Harry doesn’t understand what Draco is saying which . . . is fair. Draco doesn’t understand most of it, either.

“I slept with Hermione,” Draco tells Harry one night, when the darkness is so complete that he doesn’t have to see Harry’s face.

Draco can hear Harry’s ragged intake of breath.

“I thought it was you,” Draco says miserably, “and then in the morning--”

Harry rolls over in bed and slips his arms around Draco, pulling him close.

“Do you think I raped her?” Draco asks.

_ “Merlin, _ Draco,  _ no,” _ Harry says.

“She didn’t know it was me,” Draco says.

“You didn’t know it was her!”

“Yeah, but--” Draco rubs his face. “I did something wrong. It was wrong. Right?”

_ “You didn’t know it was her,” _ Harry repeats firmly.

Draco asks his therapist the next time he sees her because he is pretty sure Harry is biased. She tells Draco pretty much the exact same thing, except with complicated, psychological terms.

Draco doesn’t know if he believes either of them. (He’s trying. He’s trying. He’s trying.)

“The other you,” Draco whispers over dinner, “he was married to Weasley’s little sister.”

Harry pauses midbite, then lowers his fork to the table.

“I know,” he says. “The other you told me.”

“They had  _ kids,” _ Draco says. “They chose the most  _ idiotic _ names.”

Harry’s eyebrows fly up, and a smile begins to fight its way on his lips.

“I’ll make sure to let you name ours, then,” Harry says playfully.

Draco looks down at the table. His hands start to shake.

“I . . . I don’t want kids, Harry,” he says slowly. “I think we--I think I would just screw them up the way my dad screwed up me.”

“You’re not your dad,” Harry says gently.

A burning sensation begins to sting Draco’s eyes.

“I know that,” he says. “I just--I don’t want kids.”

Harry pauses. 

“Okay,” he says slowly. “We don’t have to.”

“But you want them,” Draco says thickly. “You’ve always wanted kids, ever since we started dating. You probably wanted them when you were dating the Weaslette, too, and I don’t think I’ll ever--”

Harry’s hand covers his, and Draco forces himself to meet Harry’s gaze. Harry’s eyes are watery, and a tiny smile is wobbling on his mouth.

“I do want kids,” Harry says, “but not if you don’t want them, too.”

Draco expects to feel relieved, but all he feels is sparks of dread. It’s a pretty normal feeling at this point.

Harry asks Draco if he wants to postpone the wedding, but Draco has already waited so long that he can’t stand the thought of waiting any longer.

They have a tiny wedding ceremony. Hermione officiates, and Draco and Harry all but collapse when they get back home. Despite not advertising anything, the reporters still found them.

Draco sees the photos over the next few months and wants to scream. He looks like a traumatized war victim with his pale skin only made worse by the camera flash and his overly large eyes.

“We  _ are _ traumatized war victims,” Harry jokes.

Draco flicks him with the dish towel.

“Shut up and help me wash up, already,” he says.

Draco makes Harry start going to therapy with him.

One night, curled up together outside in a blanket, gazing up at the stars, Draco whispers, “You told me to kill myself.”

Harry freezes beside him.

“Not the real you,” Draco says. “I was hallucinating. A lot. And when I thought it was the only way to get back--”

Harry frames Draco’s face, and Draco closes his eyes. He has memorized every centimeter of Harry’s hands, from the calluses on his thumbs to the lines of his palms.

“I would never,  _ ever  _ tell you to do that,” Harry says fiercely.

“Even if it meant never seeing each other again?” Draco asks.

“Nothing, Draco,” Harry breathes, “absolutely  _ nothing _ is worth your death.”

Draco rests his forehead on Harry’s chest and times his breaths with Harry’s.

Every now and then, Draco wonders how Hermione and Not Draco turned out, whether they stay together, whether they are able to work through their issues. Eventually, Draco concludes that he doesn’t have enough energy to care. He barely has enough energy to work through his  _ own _ issues, let alone worry about the problems of two people in an alternate universe that he will hopefully never see ever again.

A few years pass. Draco begins to rethink his no-children-forever edict after he sees how cute Hermione and Ron’s little girl is.

“She’s a monster,” Hermione whispers to him with a twinkle in her eyes, “but everything else makes it worth it.”

When they’re twenty-nine, Harry and Draco start talking about adoption. Harry naturally wants to make sure that Draco is sure and that it isn’t just because he’s feeling pressured. Draco tries to explain the slow shift that has come over him.

“You can’t stay in your father’s shadow forever,” his therapist likes to remind him.

“This is me,” Draco tells Harry, “stepping out.”

At the age of thirty, Draco and Harry foster a boy named Oliver with hair almost as pale as Draco’s but eyes an even deeper shade of green than Harry’s.

“It’s like he was made for us,” Harry jokes one day while changing his nappies.

“His eye color will probably change when he gets older,” Draco says, kissing Harry’s cheek.

After less than a year, they adopt Oliver and add James as his middle name.

“I thought you wanted to name your child Scorpius,” Harry says.

“I’m saving it for the main event,” Draco says smugly.

Harry rolls his eyes. “We’re only adopting girls from now on, then,” he says. “No child of mine will be named after the constellation that is literally a scorpion.”

“Says the one who suggested Albus for a middle name,” Draco sneers.

“I was drunk! Shut up!”

Life is better. This is an empirical fact, but Draco still has days when his mind goes blank, when he struggles to hold onto things because his hands shake too much, when he can’t remember where he is or what he’s doing.

Draco does not know what is real, so Harry teaches him to ask.

“Oliver in your arms,” Draco says.

“Real.”

“The color blue on the wall,” Draco says, despite being sure that it was green yesterday.

“Real.”

It’s not perfect. It’s not the life that Draco imagined living that day he went down on one knee, but it’s  _ theirs. _

And every time Draco says, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, “You,” Harry squeezes Draco’s hand and kisses him gently.

“Real,” Harry whispers against Draco’s lips.

“All in all,” Draco muses to his therapist, “I suppose it could be worse.”

The therapist smiles at him, the distant professionalism slightly overshadowed by genuine pleasure.

“I find a good many of my clients come to that conclusion,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I said this was going to be a series. I lied. XD Unwittingly, I suppose. I unfortunately lost motivation to continue this. If you feel inspired to write your own thing, then go ahead. I'll cheer you on.
> 
> As always, leave a comment or come chat with me on tumblr. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Questions? Comments? Book reviews? Make my day. Britpicking and other critique is welcome.
> 
> New tumblr url is edwinya.tumblr.com


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